


One Pair Ruby Slippers, Size 10

by gooligan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooligan/pseuds/gooligan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cursed movie memorabilia. Sam and Dean. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sam, Dean et al belong to Kripke and Co. Most of the rest belong to L. Frank. Baum. A few belong to me.
> 
> No profit, no harm, and if L. Frank's ghost shows up, I'll send him to the boys.

=======================

 

“Get me the fucking shotgun. NOW!”

 

You don't need it.” Sam Winchester sounded bored. Dean cut a quick glance his way. Sam's hair flopped around his face as he paged through a tourist guide.

 

“I need the damn gun. And scissors.”

 

Sam's head came up. “Scissors?” His forehead wrinkled in a puzzled frown.

 

“Your hair's a crime against nature, dude. But I need the gun first. Salt and holy water rounds.”

 

Sam shook his head and went back to his guide. “Stop being a drama queen. It's just Los Angeles traffic.”

 

Dean snorted and thumped his hand on the wheel of the car. “Exactly! And I'm driving a FUCKING PRIUS! That's proof!”

 

“Proof of being in California? Protective coloration? Okay, Prius. Demonic. I'll give you that.” Sam had those damn dimples. The ones that meant he was stifling a grin.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Raised eyebrows said way too much about an opinion that had Dean leaning over and smacking the back of his brother's head. “Asshole.”

 

The grin broke out into full bloom. “I know I am, but what are you?”

 

“Shot. Gun.”

 

“Patience is a virtue, Dean. And you, at least, always need more virtue.” Sam rattled the map in is hands and glanced over with a pious look on his face. He held it for all of four seconds before he dissolved into snorts of laughter. Dean let a look of profound (profound!) disgust settle on his face, knowing it would spur Sam on.

 

“You're spitting on the dashboard, Gigantor.”

 

As planned, that wound his brother up into red-faced howls that lasted at least ten minutes and could be stoked up again with just a look. It was worth nearly an hour of entertainment and that got him most of the way to his exit and probably saved at two Porsche SUV's and one BMW from grievous auto-bodily harm.

 

The traffic right off the exit wasn't all that big an improvement but thinned out steadily as they headed east, up into the low mountains that hunched over the city. The Prius struggled, sluggish on the steep climb but the beauty of the drive made the slower pace less painful. Not that he had any intention of admitting that. “I can hear the squirrels dying.”

 

Sam's mouth quirked. “Their little automotive screams will haunt you in your sleep.”

 

"Not fucking likely. I spit on their verminous graves."

 

"Brute." Sam glanced at the GPS on the dashboard. The map in his hands rattled, a talisman against bad turns. "It should be just past the peak, overlooking the desert side."

 

"Great." The laughter died away as they both considered what they might be walking into. "Silver, Holy water. Salt."

 

"Fire." Sam sighed. "I've got the fire department on speed dial. This sucks."

 

"Can't be helped." Dean sighed too. "You'd think these assholes would have learned not to collect accursed crap by now."

 

"Maybe we need a public service announcement."

 

"'This is your blood. This is your blood after you get stabbed with a cursed knife."

 

"PBS special"

 

"Frontline: Hunters."

 

Sam choked and snickered. "Dude. You never watched Frontline in your life."

 

"I watch public television! I even pledge!"

 

"On your credit card with the fake name."

 

"Three words Sam. Coeds. Phone bank. Member"

 

"That's four words. And they want members, not tools."

 

"You're just jealous of Becky. And Trish. And . . ."

 

Sam's hand smelled like the burger he'd had for lunch and spanned from one of Dean's ears to the other. "Please. No more."

 

Dean grinned behind the hand over his mouth, and licked Sam's palm. His brother yanked the hand away, making gagging noises. "They love their members, Sam."

 

"Tell me we're getting close to the cursed house. Please. I'm starting to look forward to dying."

 

Dean slowed down a little, looking for a left turn the GPS would not recognize. "You need to get a sense of civic responsibility, little brother. Viewers make all the difference, you know."

 

"Recalibrating."

 

"Shut up."

 

"If the GPS answers you I'm shooting it." Sam had leaned forward, intently scanning the hillsides.

 

"Recalibrating."

 

"I told you these cars are demonic."

 

Sam nodded absently. "Uh huh. Up there." He pointed to an unmarked dirt track.

 

"Great. Gird your fuckin' loins, squirrels." The Prius jolted and the undercarriage scraped as they bounced down off the narrow, paved track. "Remind me again why we're driving this piece of tin foil shit?"

 

"Because second hand hybrids in Los Angeles are cheap and anonymous." Sam had turned around to pull one of the big duffels out of the back seat. It clanked as loudly as the stressed undercarriage. "And the Cahuengas are not where we want to attract attention."

 

"Pussy."

 

"Meow." Sam pulled out a small electronic device and thumbed on the switch on the side. The EMF meter squealed loudly and both brothers jumped before Sam turned it back off. "I guess that answers that."

 

The little car cleared a small thicket of sagebrush and there it was, looming above them. Dean let the car drift to a stop and they stared at the big A frame, its windows showing the afternoon sun burning down towards the horizon. "Ostentatious motherfucker."

 

"Truer words." Sam dropped the EMF back into has bag and leaned back. "Let's get this over with."

 

"What? This? This'll be all KINDS of fun! Who doesn't love the movie business, Sam?" Dean set the little car lurching forwards again, up the rutted, dusty road.

 

"Oh yeah. I always loved 'Psycho.' Nothing like seeing Hitchcock in the flesh." Sam's tone was dry.

 

"I"m just happy it's not the 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre,' man. If I've gotta deal with cursed horror movie crap, really the worst one out there."

 

"Stop it. You're creeping me out."

"Hell, it could have been the 'Ghostbusters'!"

 

"That giant marshmallow man?"

 

"Damn straight!" Dean pulled up on parking pad, a tiny patch of pavement at the end of the dirt road.

 

Sam shoved the door open, unfolding himself froom the bucket seat. "I'd pay to see you smeared in marshmallow."

 

"Kinky." He pulled his own duffel bag out of the back. "I never knew about this incest-confection thing you have, Sam. Maybe you should talk to someone about that. Don't want to end up a dirty old diabetic." He let his mouth run on cruise control while he studied the house and wild land around it. The house perched in the middle of tangled, thorny pushes and trees as if it had grown from the hillside rather than being built. Only a barren path where no plants would grow showed the buried cables and pipes that tethered this house to the city hunkered at the bottom of the hills.

 

"Got the alarm box." Sam's voice came, muffled, from around one corner.

 

"Need help?"

 

"Nah." Sam walked back around the corner, showily dusting his hands. "I think this idiot depended on the dirt road mainly to keep him safe."

 

Dean sucked in a deep breath, held it, and then headed for the stairs up to the deck. "Then lets get this done. I want this sucker down before sundown."

 

Sam's longer legs took the stairs two at a time, passing him. "Don't want you missing your nap time, old man."

 

"Whipper-fucking-snapper," he muttered back, joining his brother at a big, glass, sliding door decorated with ugly yellow police tape. It fluttered as he tugged it loose, dropping to the ground. Sam already had a shotgun out, and an iron machete. Dean held his own shotgun ready and slid open the door, relaxed but ready, eyes and ears ready for any hint of movement, sound.

 

Both hunters were quiet now as they slid through the door, rubber soled shoes silent on the hardwood floors. Harsh light cut through high windows, slicing the gloom and dazzling if they looked at it too long. Dean glanced at Sam, who had studied the blueprints on file and now pointed the way deeper into the shadows, towards where the house cut into the mountainside. Stairs led up as the house followed the slope, tall windows behind them catching the late afternoon light. Nothing moved around them but the motes of dust gliding gently down in the beams.

 

"Back there." Sam spoke so softly his voice was barely louder than the breeze whistling in the trees outside. He pointed down a darkly shining hall lined in rich wood, brass light fixtures gleaming in shadows. Dean nodded and slipped past him, long used to taking point. He glanced back at Sam and asked, at a pointedly normal volume, "tell me about this curse."

 

Sam grimaced but nodded. They both knew that anything here did not need sound to sense them. "What do you need to know? Iconic object. Millions of people see it and invest it with their terror."

 

"If that was all it took then every clown out there would have a possessed red squeaky nose."

 

"Not funny."

 

Dean snickered. "Floppy shoes chasing you down endless hallways."

 

"Shut up."

 

"Gaslight and curly wigs?"

 

"Fuck you, Dean." Sam nodded a a big set of ornately carved doors. "Through there and I really hope there's a pair of floppy shoes in there that'll kick your ass."

 

Sam shoved the door open and Dean slid through, weapon ready and covering in a wide sweep as Sam stepped through behind him, doubling the cover. Dean finished the sweep then let himself actually see the room itself and he whistled, low and long. "Crap. Look at this shit!"

 

"Yeah. Did you recognize the doors?"

 

"Doors?" Dean absently let his mouth run on autopilot as he wandered deeper into a room that looked like an aircraft hanger full of crap he recognized from movies. He paused, awed. "Jesus Christ, look at this. It's the chainsaw. I was just joking!"

 

"Got the knife from Psycho. This is our bad boy." Dean glanced up to see Sam a few aisles over, next to a bathtub with a red splashed curtain hanging from a ring. He was fishing a box out of his duffel and Dean braced, weapon at the ready until he had successfully scooped something small into the carefully inscribed cigar box in his hands. "Got it."

 

"That's one more bad thing down." Dean grinned and gave him a thumb's up. Then looked back at the displays around him. "What was that about doors?"

 

"The doors. They're part of the collection. They're from the house where Sharon Tate was murdered. I guess the whole house is cursed.."

 

"Yeah? Wonder if that's why this guy went crazy and started buying all this shit." Dean leaned down to look at a model of what could only be Jar Jar Binks. And shuddered. "Fucking terrifying."

 

"Maybe. Or maybe everything in here becomes accursed. I don't know. I can't imagine a murder like that not having an impact."

 

Dean heard his voice as a kind of drone, Sam-babble of trivia in the background, telling him everything was normal, and he could relax as much as a hunter ever did. A sudden flash of brilliant color and sparkle caught his eye and he snickered. "Hey Sam, look at this! I thought this joker only went for the horror movies but check it out!"

 

"What?" Sam wasn't bothering to be quiet anymore and his shoes squeaked a little on the wooden floor. "What did you OH MY GOD DEAN DON'T T . . "

 

The rest of the word was swallowed in the dull roar of a freight train and the rising whine of wind as Dean dropped the red sparkly pumps and spun around but it was too late. Much too late. The tornado wind screeched and the world was spinning as Dorothy Gale's shoes clattered to the floor and Dean Winchester's world spun and Sam yelled and then everything went black.

 

To be, ahem, continued.


	2. Toto, what big smells you have!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruby Slippers, Size 10
> 
> See part 1 for disclaimers and for what pass for warnings. Though I may have overlooked mentioning language. If you're sensitive about such things, this isn't your fic. Not much blood, gore, or other things that anyone would need to be warned about. Lots of bad taste and grouching though!
> 
> ===============

Waking up was one thing. Regaining consciousness was something else entirely. Dean Winchester was fairly familiar with both and knew the difference quite well. The greatest danger of waking up was lack of coffee in cheap motels. Or, at worst, Sam on a prank war. Regaining consciousness was something else entirely but it also had a well-known protocol, and he followed it now. 

No apparent motion. Eyes kept closed and face slack, relaxed. He smelled dusty corn husks, the perfume of the Midwest. Felt breeze across the hairs of his shins and that was disquieting. What kind of creature took a man's pants? Another slow, even, pseudo-unconscious breath and was that the scent of flowers and . . . doghair? 

"Quit faking, you denim clad menace. Get up and fix this you moron!"

"Crowley?" Dean sat up fast and groaned at the ache in his head. And a small body, like a little yappy dog but horribly not, hopped up on the bed on which he lay. And curled a lip on a head that looked, God-or-reasonable-simulations-thereof help him, like the demon king Crowley. Dean groaned again and rubbed hard at his eyes, then looked up again and no, no, he wasn't hallucinating. Or maybe he was but the last time he hallucinated it wasn't anything as awful as seeing Crowley's smug face perched on a dog's little body. He winced and gagged. And Crowley curled that lip further and sat back, scratching behind an ear with one hind paw. His little dog wang bounced and Dean shuddered in horror and shoved the ghastly little beast off the bed. "Get away from me! Now."

The four legged nightmare bounced to its feet and wagged its curly little tail as it snarled at him. "I don't know how you did this, Winchester, and I don't care. Just FIX it or I swear I will rip out your guts and . . and . . . bury them under the shrubbery with my favorite fucking BONE!"

"Your tail is wagging."

"I'll kill you and rip you apart with my teeth."

Dean snickered, even as he kept Crowley in his peripheral vision. "Your little teeny tiny terrier teeth. I'm shaking in my . . .what the fuck am I WEARING?"

"A dress, you idiot."

When a demon was right, he was right. Dean scowled, and pinched the hem between thumb and one finger like it was something too filthy even for a hunter to touch. It was the hem of a blue and white checked dress. He'd never worn such a thing in his first life, second life or afterlife because, no matter how bad hell was, it never stooped this low. Crowley snickered. "I see Paris, I see France, I see the Hunter's under YELP!" as Dean kicked at the wretched little beast and it pranced away. 

"Shut the fuck up." He studied the sturdy, practical boots on his feet . Worn, leather soles. Not the best for grip or footing. Looked up and around and cataloged the small, sparsely furnished room around him. There was a scuffed chest of drawers and a bed with a scratchy mattress that crinkled and smelled of stale corn husks, and one of those ugly little beat up rugs on by the bed that you always saw on little old ladies' kitchen floors. He swallowed hard and slid off the bed. His knees were a little wobbly and his head pounded, spiking with every growl and yap from that hideous little animal on the floor and, okay, yeah, it felt really damn weird to be wearing a dress. He wasn't used to a draft on his little hunters. Let alone having Crowley ogling up his skirt and making comments.

But, okay, he was a big hunter and he could take it. 

Weapons. He wanted weapons. There was nothing here. Nothing cheap enough to rip apart easily for a stick or a spear. Nothing to throw except . . .okay. He could work with that. He leaned down and scooped up Crowley's little squirmy body and stepped to the door as the little terror cursed obscenely. He took a deep breath and ripped open the door, arm cocked back like a star high-school quarterback with the ugliest football ever and stopped cold, Crowley poised for the hail-mary pass, and both of them gaped. And said, together, "What the fuck?"

Crowley squirmed loose and dropped to the ground with a grunt and an obscenity. "I hate to admit it, you filthy little bastard, but yeah, shit. Big, stinking piles of it."

They were standing on the weathered, gray boards of a porch that ran the width of a small, equally weathered and gray house that looked kind of like a garage from Kansas. The edge of the porch was where gray ended and LSD Disneyland started. Dean ground the heels of his hands into eyes that were smarting from the overload of lurid color. Crowley hopped down off the porch and sniffed at a flower that looked like a bad flashback, then spat and turned around to lift a leg and piss on it.

"What the hell did you do to us, Crowley?"

"This isn't hell, you blithering moron. Hell's decorated in better colors than this ghastly concoction. Did you sprinkle illegal mushrooms on your pizza again?"

"That only happened once." Dean stepped cautiously off the wood steps and onto what felt like plush, rich green and looked like astroturf. "And why the hell do you know about that?"

"Sin, you murderous oaf. If this nightmare is your fault I'll skin you alive and feed you your own intestines." Crowley sniffed at crayon-colored shrubs and plants then suddenly crouched and took a dump. 

"Yeah, I am so terrified of a yappy little demon like you. Oh, ew. that STINKS!." Dean backed away, moving around to the corner of the house, then he froze. Stared. "Shit."

"Just finished." Crowley trotted over and peered around the house. Then ran over to sniff the legs sticking out from under the house. And turned to lift a leg on the striped-stocking clad limbs. "Shocking."

"How much piss do you have IN you?" The hunter crouched to study the legs, and their shiny red shoes. 

"Let me guess. You have always wanted to ask some dog that question." Crowley was dragging his butt on the grass. Then he hopped up and bounced over to Dean. "So. Put on the shoes and get us the fuck out of here."

"You put 'em on! I'm not putting those things on my feet. Hell, they won't even FIT on my feet. And I wouldn't put them on if they did!"

"Paws, you denim-clad cretin. You've seen the movie. Put them on."

"Yeah, sure, go fuck yourself little dog. I put those on and I'm a marked man. A marked man in sparkly red HEELS!"

Crowley snickered wildly. "This is almost worth it for that!"

"Not doing it!"

A throat cleared behind them. A very familiar voice coughed out, "Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?"

 

To be cont.


	3. Skipping is for Sissies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean and Crowley begin to figure out exactly how much danger they're in, and also discuss fashion sense.

"Bobby!" Dean shot to his feet, spinning to . . . come to a roaring halt and stare. "Uh. . . "

"Catching flies, chucklehead. Now. Answer the question. Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"

Dean heard the words but they really didn't make sense. Nonsense questions could wait. He circled the old guy, making sure to respect the definite perimeter defined by . . . "Really not sure about the big, puffy, princess dress but I must say you are ROCKING the tiara, Bobby!" 

Bobby Singer huffed and crossed his beefy arms, taking care not to hit himself in the head with the sparkly wand he carried. He turned to keep facing Dean, and his layered, frothy gown whispered over the lime green grass. "Well? You just gonna stand there or you gonna answer the question, idjit?"

"Uh, question?"

"Good witch or bad witch, Dean. It's an easy question. Answer it."

"I'm a hunter, Bobby. What is WITH the weird questions?"

"I'm standing here tricked out like Cinderella and you're dressed in . . . whatever the fuck that is, and that's the best you can do? Dean! Answer the QUESTION!"

"Dress. It's a dress. And some pervert spell got me into it while I was unconscious. And I'm not a witch!"

Crowley chirped, "No, you're an oaf in ankle socks and a dress! And lacy panties."

"Just shut up, Crowley. This is hard enough without you piping up." Bobby waved his sparkly wand at the little demon-dog, trailing pretty bubbles behind it. The follow through brought the star on the tip of the wand around to point at Dean. Now. Witch. Bad? Good? Head up your ass?"

Dean stared at the bubbles, at the dog, at his mentor, and shook his head. "Will food poisoning make you hallucinate shit like this? Cause maybe I did eat a burrito that was left over a little long . . "

Bobby smacked him with the wand. "Right. Head up your ass it is. Now we got that answered, just go put the shoes on, Dean. Oh, and the rest of you jackasses get out here. Quit hiding!"

"But he didn't say if he's a good witch or a bad witch," piped a high, strained voice that made Dean and Crowley both wince in sympathy. 

"He's an idiot and he's not gonna hurt ya, morons. Come on out. And Dean, put on the shoes."

"I already had this argument with dog boy there -" 

"HEY!" barked Crowley,

". . . and I am not putting those on my feet." Dean waved to the body under the house, with its flashy kitten heels.

Bobby glared at him. "Then you're stuck here forever. You better learn to like wearing that dress cause you'll be in it until you follow the rules and get us all out of here!"

While the old guy in his fluffy ball-gown waved his wand around and yelled, many small people had come creeping out of the crayon-bright garden and now they crowded around Dean and Crowley and Bobby, trying to pet the demon (who snapped at them and called them filthy names) and patting at Dean and Bobby's skirts. A hand slid up Dean's leg and he glared down to find a small man leering at him. "Hands off, perv."

"Can't blame a guy for admiring the goods!" It sounded even worse in the high, squeaky voice.

Dean shuddered. Bobby smacked his forehead with the wand. "Dean. You might be ready to wear a dress for eternity but I am not. Put. On. The. Shoes."

"Bobbbbby!" he whined.

"Do what the old cross-dresser says, Winchester." Crowley sat down, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he panted. Then slurped. And spat. "Or are you going to charge them to peep up your skirts? If you're going to stay here you'll have to make a living somehow."

Dean and Bobby both stared at him. Then looked up and at each other. Dean nodded and said, "Okay. But they won't fit."

"And I don't look good in white princess crap. Quit stalling."

He turned, knowing he was dragging his feet, leaving scuff marks in the not-quite-astroturf, and made his way to legs of the squashed witch. The shoes felt oddly warm when he tugged them off. The feet curled up like yoyos as he stood there and he shuddered. Then toed off the beaten, old work boots he wore and slipped on first one little pump, then the other, and stood and turned towards Bobby. And promptly stumbled as one ankle turned under him. "How do women walk in these things?"

"A hell of a lot better than you," growled his dog. Crowley leaned a little closer and sniffed the shoes. "Powerful."

"You always like to sniff shoes?" Dean wobbled back up onto his feet. 

"I like powerful things, despite the fact that they're on your reeking feet." The demon dog shot him a leer. "And now they're powerful size ten sparkly red pumps. The bobby-socks, on the other hand, are merely adorable."

"Crowley's got a point." Bobby (the guy, not the socks) fished a plug of tobacco out of one of the layers of frothy ballgown and bit off a chunk. "The little ankle socks are a new look for you, Dean, but they really pull the whole shoes and dress thing together, you know?"

"You should talk, Bobby. Look, if you're supposed to be a good witch, can't you just fast forward me to the end of this nightmare and get me out?"

"Nah." Bobby had wandered off to explore the little cabin, voluminous skirts trailing behind him. "Glinda was a pretty candy-ass witch as far as I can tell. Figure you're gonna have to do this the hard way."

"Am I gonna have to skip? I hate skipping. And I'd probably break an ankle trying to do it on these things."

Bobby came back out of the little clapboard house, hiked his skirts up above the dusty boards and stomped his way down the three stairs. He tossed a small basket at Dean. "Here. You might need this."

"Only if it's got a gun in it." Dean stared at the thing in distaste and got ready to pitch it but something about the look on Bobby's face distracted him. "What? What is it?"

Crowley had started to whimper and paw at his ears. "Oowoooo!"

Bobby raised a hand and shoved his tiara back off his forehead like he would with a baseball cap. "You boys're probably gonna want to run in a minute."

"Run?" Dean stared at him and at Crowley, who was crouched in misery whimpering at something to stop.

"Yeah, I figure you have about five seconds and you better get your ass in gear if you want to get out of here before you end up in insulin shock."

"What are you talking about?" Dean stared at him. "This place is bad enough but now you're just off your rocker?"

"No, now I'm telling you to hump it because those little fuckers are just about to sing!"

"Sing?" Dean's voice faltered and he was suddenly aware of a sound like angry hornets in harmony. "SING?"

"Run, you idiots!"

Crowley dashed past him on stubby little legs. "Move you blithering cretinous wretch! Before that sound drives me mad!"

Dean snickered. "I don't know. Maybe I'll just stand here and watch you enjoy it!"

And Crowley bit him. Right in the little lacy goddamn ankle sock! Dean took off because, honestly, the singing was making his teeth itch. He took off loping, trying not to twist an ankle. "Crap! I can't run in heels!"

"They're kitten heels, Winchester, not fuck-me pumps! RUN!"

And he did. In a widening, stomach churning, inner-ear-assaulting spiral as the grating strains of "Follow the yellow brick road!" spurred him on.

Somewhere behind him, Bobby Singer, gown and all, disappeared in a shower of Bubbles and Dean was alone. Other than Crowley, that is, though that might have been worse than alone. But either way, they were on the yellow brick road and a journey of a thousand miles began with Dean Winchester kicking Crowley's little dog butt every time he caught up with the mangy little monster.

And thus, their journey began. Or something like it.

To be cont.


	4. Crossroads and Scarecrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're on that yellow brick road, but skipping? Not likely.

"You're supposed to sing."

"Fuck you, Crowley." It was a tired, toneless repetition because it wasn't like it was the first time he'd said that. Or the fifth. Or . . .well. Dean had actually lost count.

And Crowley was laughing at him. Worse. Crowley had rolled over and was doing that thing dogs did where they squirmed around on their backs but where it was cute in dogs, it was really horrifying in a demon dog who was happily waving that teeny doggie weeny for all he was worth. Dean would have taken a good kick at the foul beast except he didn't think he could keep his balance on what felt like a high heeled shoes to a guy who mainly wore steel-toed boots. 

Dean took the high road. Actually, he took the yellow road and walked past the filthy little beast, focusing on how nice it was that he could barely see the curve in the road. When it had started out it had been a tight, nausea-inducing spiral that reminded him of the water in a flushed crapper, swirling around and around. He had actually felt sorry for Crowley when the little monster had to stagger off the road and puke. For all of twelve seconds maybe, and then he'd staggered over himself, turning an ankle as he stepped off the road and those stupid shoes had tripped him up on the dirt before he'd dropped to his knees and tossed up about a year's worth of diner food. 

So, yeah, having a road that was nearly straight was almost good enough to make up for when Crowley started telling him he should be singing.

"Singing and SKIPPING!" chortled the filthy animal. Demon. Animal.

Dean suddenly came to a stop and stared at the creature. "How would you know?"

"Because I've seen the 'Wizard of Oz,' of course!"

"What, do all you demons sit around watching Turner Classics?"

"Of course." Crowley had given up squirming and was trotting along beside him. "Can't always be possessing idiots and scheming against angels."

"Nice to know. So. Any way we can negotiate a peace treaty with demons if we offer a better cable package?"

Crowley smirked up at him. "You can try."

"Yeah, I'll get back to you on that." He slowed, stopped, standing there among the corn fields and fences, looking at the point where yet another yellow brick road ran across the landscape and crossed the road on which he stood. 

"A crossroads!" Crowley chortled, running right to the center, where he crouched to take a dump. "A little piece of hell in all this ghastly countryside!"

Dean wrinkled his nose, waving a hand at the stink. "So? You got a soul to claim here or what?"

Crowley trotted around the square where the four roads met under the absent gaze of a scarecrow. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"You know, I played football for one year of high school."

"So?" Crowley looked over one little doggie shoulder. 

"So I still remember how to drop kick something that's about the size of a football. Want to see?"

Crowley sighed. "Cretinous oaf. We need to find the wizard. So you tell me, Winchester. Which road do we take?"

Dean blinked. Point. He'd never admit to Crowley but the filthy little monster had a point. He looked up one road, up the next. "Well shit."

"Did that already. It didn't help."

"True." The word rang out in the still air.

Dean spun and looked at Crowley. Crowley looked back at him, wide eyed. Neither of them moved and neither of them was speaking but both of them heard someone say, "On the other hand you could try that way."

"Sam?" Dean turned back and forth, looking for his brother. Crowley was spinning in place, yelping. And then the scarecrow flopped its hand again and said, "And on the other other hand, you could try that other way."

Dean stared, appalled, as his brother the scarecrow pointed both ways down the other road, "Or maybe that's the way. All roads go somewhere!"

"Sam, stop it. You're creeping me out here, dude."

"But I'm a loveable scarecrow, Dean!"

"Can't help it man. Scarecrows are freaky, you know?"

"I can't help it if I'm animalia challenged." Sam sighed. "And cranially too. I guess if I had a brain . . ."

"I'm pretty sure you've got a brain. It's the rest of you that's a bit on the vegetable side." Dean reached up and poked Sam in the chest. His finger sunk into rustling, dry straw and corn husks. "Ew!"

Crowley snickered. "That's right. Give him a poke. I always knew you two had it in you!"

"Shut up!" Sam and Dean both snapped at him. Dean turned back. "So. You've just been hanging around?"

Sam craned back to look over his shoulder at the wooden post on which he was hanging. "Pretty much. Just yelling at crows and trying to teach passers-by to use politically correct terminology when referring to the altitudinally challenged residents of Munchkinland."

"Bullshit." Dean was circling, studying him. 

"The citizens of Munchkinland have a long and rich history, Dean, and they deserve respect." Sam wriggled, trying to reach back to scratch between where shoulder blades would have been on a human. 

"If you promise to NEVER say those words in my presence again, I'll get you down."

"What? Citizens of -"

"Ah!" Dean held up a finger. And Sam actually focused on him. 

"Dean, how did you get here?"

"Tornado. Witch. Skipping. Puke."

"Well, all but the skipping," added Crowley.

"And what are you wearing?"

"A dress. What does it look like?"

Sam tilted his head to the side. "You never struck me as the type for a gingham dress. Especially not with a pinafore."

Dean blinked. "That's another word you are never to say in my presence."

"Pinafore?" Sam looked puzzled. Shrugged. "The shoes don't really match."

"Blame Bobby. They're his fault."

"Bobby's here?" Sam looked around quickly, looked back at Dean, "But Bobby's . . .you know. . . ."

"Dead?" Dean tapped a ruby toe. "I'm standing here in a dress and an apron -" 

"Pinafore!"

"And little red shoes and you're wondering why we're seeing dead men?"

"You forgot the cute little ankle socks and the lacy panties, Winchester." Crowley trotted over and lifted a leg on Sam's pole.

Sam, meanwhile, studied his outfit carefully. "Your dress appears to be a style common in the thirties, and not terribly expensive. Lace was expensive, so the panties probably have ruffles instead."

"Ruffles? YIPE!" Crowley rolled to escape the kick Dean aimed at him, though he was probably safe since the hunter lost his balance when he tried to stand on just one slipper-shod foot and wobbled until he got both feet under him again.

"Let's NOT talk about my panties, Sam. Let's just get you down!" 

"Fine by me! You'll have to lift me down. I'm hanging from a nail I think."

Dean peered around him and grunted. Scratched at his butt through the skirt. "You had to remind me about the panties, didn't you?"

Sam gave him a grin full of mischief. "What else are brothers for? So get me down already."

Dean sighed, and walked back around the pole. Reached out and tried to just straight lift Sam at arm's length but the scarecrow body was deceptively heavy. Wincing, he moved in closer, wrapping his arms around Sam's thighs.

"Uh . . ." Sam looked down at him and actually blushed. Dean almost stuck out his tongue and at the last instant, decided that'd be a bad idea. 

Crowley was sitting there at his feet, tongue lolling as he leered up at them. "Look at that. I always knew you two were just a little bit too close, if you know what I mean?"

"Shut up, asshole." Dean grunted and hugged Sam's legs, lifting.

"That's got to be a sin," chortled Crowley. "One of you on a pole and the other in his crotch? That counts!"

"Ignore him," advised Sam, then flopped to the ground as he suddenly came loose from the pole. 

"Sam?"

"Whoa!" Sam rolled, came up onto his feet, but all wobbly legged. Dean watched him jitterbug away and then spin, legs every which way. 

"Dude, you look like Jackie Chan in 'The Drunken Master!'"

"This body is really," he did a backflip, "FLEXIBLE!"

Crowley nipped at his ankle. "You look like a giant chew toy."

"Get off him, freak."

"I'm not the one who was sniffing scarecrow crotch, Winchester!"

"Get the hell off!" Dean nearly tried another kick at Crowley, when he heard Sam whoop and the thud of a body that was a lot lighter and less meaty than a human, as it hit the ground. 

Dean crouched down next to Sam, looking into his face. His skin looked strange, textured like fabric. He shuddered, remembering a scarecrow whose cloth skin hid a bloody ruin, but while this face was strange, the eyes were familiar. And annoyed. Dean tapped his chest, and pulled his hand back from the weird rustle and give. "That's gonna take getting used to. How much straw are you wearing?"

Sam leaned back, bracing his arms behind him and wove his leg his legs into what looked almost like a pretzel knot. "You really don't get it yet, do you?"

Crowley was sitting, watching them. "He doesn't. He's an idiot."

"Not helping." Sam looked steadily into Dean's eyes. "I'm not wearing straw, Dean. I AM straw. Just like Crowley's a dog and Bobby's alive."

Dean swallowed. Hard. He looked away but he could still feel Sam's steady gaze on him. Looked back. "That's not possible."

"Says the man who kills impossible things." Crowley sounded amused.

"I hate to have to agree with Crowley -"

"Then don't!"

"But he's right. I'm straw. And he's a dog. And you're wearing a pinafore and red, sparkly shoes."

"And ruffly panties!" added Crowley.

"Shut UP!" Both Sam and Dean snapped at him. Dean turned back to Sam. "I won't say scarecrows can't get up and walk around because we both know better, but how do YOU get to be like . . " He gestured. 

"And how do you get to wear ruby slippers and how does Bobby even exist?"

"And me, of course." Crowley was scratching behind one ear, back leg going like mad, eyes half closed in delight.

"I figured that part was just karma." Dean grinned briefly.

"It might be," said Sam. "But it's your karma, Dean. You mess with a cursed object, you wind up with bad things in your life."

"I wasn't messing with the cursed object. YOU were taking care of the knife!"

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. "Thank goodness you at least stuck me with the SMART one in the movie."

"Quit bragging. Don't you still need a brain? Or was he talking about the OTHER brain?"

"That's the porn version, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. "Don't you remember? The doors? The storeroom? I'd bet the whole place was built with pieces of murder sites and movies. All that belief, all those things that people think about, all over the world. It's like a tulpa, except it's about stuff instead of monsters."

"So . . . everything in there is cursed?"

"That's probably the best way to think of it. It's not technically a curse but it'll work that way." Sam worked a finger in his ear like something bothered him, and pulled out a long piece of straw. Dean swallowed back that sour taste again.

"Do you really have straw everywhere?"

Sam winced, eyes dropping to his lap and quickly coming back up. "I AM straw everywhere, Dean. And you really do not want to be following that line of thought any further."

"How does that work? Is this all, like, a hallucination? Are you sitting back in that house cursing me out?"

"I . . . I don't think so." Sam was tying a piece of straw into knots. It was the one he had pulled out of his ear. "I think it's strong enough to warp reality locally."

"That doesn't explain why I'm here, stuffed shirt." Crowley was looking annoyed, face screwed up and tail drooping. "I'm not part of your local reality if I have any choice about it."

"You're part of Dean's subjective reality. So am I. I'm just sort of surprised the Impala isn't here."

"That would be sweet! No speed limits in Oz! I could run baby full out - Oz in nothing flat."

"That's not happening, for pretty much the same reason I had to do the scarecrow song and dance. We're playing under the local rules. We can bend, but not violate the rules. The shoes define the rules, and you touched the shoes. And Dean, really, haven't you learned better than to mess with shoes?"

"It was just that one time." He looked down at his feet. "Two now."

"You always did have to stick your finger in the socket." Sam smiled gently and his smile, like his eyes, was the one Dean knew so well. "We need to go. We've got a long road ahead."

Dean knew it. But he didn't want to get up, didn't want have to see the strange, boneless way that Sam moved. Though there was the funny little dog waddle that Crowley had when he ran so this wasn't all bad. He pulled his feet in to get up, feeling exposed as the skirt rode up a little, and then paused. "How come you had to do the scarecrow dance but I don't have to skip?"

Crowley, who had been sprawled and napping, sat up and his ears sort of wiggled as if they wanted to perk up. "I've been wondering that myself."

Sam wobbled up to his feet on rubbery scarecrow legs to stand, weaving. He waved at Dean and smiled ruefully. "It's his fault. He's the one who touched the shoes so he's the focus. It's his show."

Dean was also a little wobbly when he stood, though he was getting better on those stupid little heels. "If I'm the focus, why can't I wish myself into pants?"

"If he gets pants I want -"

"Shut UP Crowley!" they said. 

Sam pointed down one of the four roads. "Pretty sure we need to go that way."

"You sure I can't get the Impala?"

Sam grinned. "I wish. But we do this on foot."

:Or feet, if you're Crowley." 

Sam turned a kind gaze on him. "You know you will have to do this. The whole journey?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Can we just get ON with this shitty quest? Sam, are you sure that's the right way?"

Sam wobbled around in a circle, looking all around him, then climbed up onto the fence and finally said "It could be this way, or that way," pointing left, right, "But I say we try there!" 

"There." Dean looked down the road where he pointed, at rolling hillsides, fields of late, tall corn that boxed them into a piss-yellow canyon, and finally sighed. "I guess that's as good a way as any?"

"Will you sing and dance NOW, at least?" Crowley had come back and was sitting, watching, with an expectant look. "Come on, at least skip."

Dean gave him a long, flat stare. "Skip my ass. We're off to see the fucking wizard, and if you want a song I can give you my best rendition of 'Highway to Hell.'"

Crowley stood up and trotted beside them as they started down the road. "Been there. Done that."

"Yeah. Us too."


	5. Chapter 5: The woods are not lovely, but are dark and deep . . .

Chapter 5

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep," murmured Sam. All three of them had crowded to the center of the road as the rolling fields had given way to gnarled, stunted trees hunkered under taller, dark forest. 

Dean made a rude noise. "The woods are fucking ugly and spooky, and the trees look like you could catch something from them." 

"I don't even want to piss on them." Crowley edged closer to Dean, until he finally tripped him up. Dean staggered on his little red shoes and hissed as he turned an ankle.

"This gets old very fast. In fact, it was old before it even started." Dean tried to balance on one foot so he could rub the twisted, achy ankle, wishing he could take off the damn shoe and rub the foot. Wishing he could stand and not wobble when he tried to stand on that foot. "Women are crazy! These things screw your balance!"

"I hate to say it but I actually agree with Winchester." Crowley took advantage of the pause to roll over on his back and wriggle. "At least about this whole experience being older than an angel's undies."

Sam sighed loudly. "More than one Winchester here, Crowley!"

"You're not a mammal. Animate vegetables don't count."

"Sure they do." Sam grinned an inhumanly toothy grin. "You've clearly never seen Dean with a hangover."

"Hey!" Dean paused, scratched the back of his head. "Though maybe you're not completely wrong about that. Crap. Now you made me think of hangovers."

"Good times, huh Dean?" Sam,'s voice was dry.

"It's just that hangovers, you know, they give me the munchies." His stomach growled so loudly that Crowley jumped and yelped, eying him nervously. "And I would kill for a greasy burger and fries right now."

Crowley made a face and warily edged away from them, then studied the trees and edged back. "I'm not sure what's more disquieting, Winchester. Your hangover cures or your gastric sound effects."

"I can't help it. I'm hungry!"

"You're always hungry, Dean."

"Point. But still." He gave a long, thoughtful look to Crowley, who growled, then tucked his butt and took a huge, reeking dump. Dean shuddered, face screwed up in an appalled expression, and carefully skirted around the resulting pile. He definitely did NOT look at Crowley the same way, turning instead to the forest around them and suddenly headed for one of the trees. "Hey, look! These are apples!"

"Dean, I don't think you - HEY~!" Sam broke off as Crowley growled and bit at his ankles. "Let go!"

They were tussling, Crowley tugging at Sam's ankle. Dean snorted, turned back and yanked an apple out of a tree. 

"Ow! You little thug!" A creaky voice rasped and the tree rustled and rocked in violent motion. An apple suddenly smacked into Dean's forehead.

"Shit!" He dropped his plucked apple and grabbed a branch, yanking until it snapped. "Fuck you, you overgrown matchstick!"

"Brat!" The tree swung a branch and clocked him, sending him flying.

"I will burn you, you asshole!"

Another apple flew out, and got him in the eye. Dean was scrabbling in the little basket that he'd been carrying all along. "Salt, matches, salt, matches! Crap isn't there ANYTHING in this goddamn basket? SAM! I need a lighter and a can of gas!"

His brother had quit wrestling with the demon dog when Dean looked up but he wasn't looking for matches either. He was standing there with a hand over his mouth like he was trying not to laugh. And Crowley was chasing an apple down the road. Dean scowled. "Sam? Matches?"

Sam's voice sounded a bit choked. "Uh, I'm a scarecrow Dean. Flammable?"

Dean stared at him. Swallowed. Let that one go and whined, "Salt?"

"Sorry, no salt. Want some straw?" He plucked a handful out from between the buttons of his plaid shirt and held it out.

"Thanks but . . no." Dean turned back and swiped at the tree, snapping off a few more sticks from pure spite and the tree shot back, hurling a dozen apples that thudded against him and the road behind him. Sam was snickering and racing off down the road in a rubber-legged rush.

"You!" He pointed at the tree. "Next time I see you, I'm bringing a lighter and a can of gas!"

Another apple caught him in the gut. "Try it, big guy! I'll be waiting!"

"Jerk." Dean scooped several of the apples into that little basket he was still carrying, and ran after Sam, skidding and wobbling but starting to get the hang of moving on the damn shoes. 

Sam was waiting around a curve in the road, laughing openly now. Crowley was sprawled on the road, gnawing on an apple he had trapped between his paws. Dean slowed, stopped next to Sam, polished an apple on his apron and bit into the fruit. "You're a jerk too. You totally knew that was coming."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I did. But Crowley's right."

Dean shot a suspicious look at the demon dog. "Right about what?"

"You don't remember the movie, do you?" Sam cocked his head to the side, eyes shrewd.

"I only saw it that one time when you begged. No, wait, I did see the remake." He chewed thoughtfully and then added, "I'm kind of glad this is the old version. I'm not sure I could deal with the spike heels and the corset."

"That's the porn version, Dean." This time it was Sam AND Crowley.

"It's an adaptation, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "If I'd told you that the apple tree would try to stop you, would you have gone after the apples?"

"Sure. I was hungry." Dean had pulled a second apple out of the basket. 

"Bullshit." Crowley had abandoned his apple. "You'd have waited til you could burn it down."

"You calling me chicken, puppy dog?" Dean lobbed an apple core at him.

"Calling you a pussy, hunter! MEOW!" 

Dean lunged, taking a playful swipe at Crowley. And promptly stepped on the half apple Crowley had left and went ass over tit, rolling into the trees. "SHIT!"

"Asshole!"

"Dean!"

He rolled down the slope, through thin shrubs and over mossy banks and came to a stop with a loud clang. "Oof!"

Sam was pelting noisily through the underbrush after him, and Crowley was edging cautiously down. He could see them both heading his way, and then Sam stopped. And his eyes widened, his mouth dropping open and he started to laugh again.

"What!?" Dean rubbed at a bruise on his back, glaring at his brother. Then up at whatever had stopped his fall. And found himself looking at a tin column. He scrambled to his feet, finding the tin column was a leg that ran up to a tin body that ran to tin shoulders on top of which perched . . ."CASTIEL?"

"CREAK!"

"Well fuck me stupid!"

"Too late." Crowley trotted past him, sniffed at the rusty tin angel. And lifted his leg and pissed.


	6. Bullet bras and Tin Can Alley, Oh My.

Chapter 6

Sam was staring fixedly into Castiel's weird, silvery face. Dean tapped his brother on a squishy, rustling shoulder. "He's not moving."

"His eyeballs are." Sam leaned in even closer and waved his hands in front of Castiel's face. "See?"

Dean rolled his eyes, then grinned as Cas copied his eye-roll. "So why's the REST of him not moving?"

Sam glanced back, over his shoulder, then jumped as Cas made a horrible, screeching noise. "Remember the movie? He's rusted."

"Oh . . .yeah." He cleared his throat. "Are you sure that's it? I thought in the movies, his batteries had run down."

"Winchester, have you ever actually SEEN the Wizard of Oz? Or do you ONLY remember the porn versions?" Crowley's voice was coming from the little cluster of shrubs that had grown up around Castiel's legs. He was snuffling. That couldn't be good.

"Hey. I remember it. Some of it. The ads at least. I think. Chick with pigtails and the fucking blue dress and all? No fuck me heels?" Dean shoved the bushes back, where he found Crowley and an old-fashioned can shaped like a dunce's hat. He scooped it up, upended it briefly to see if he was right about what it contained, then turned to Sam and held it out. "Damn! I think Lady Gaga wore something this, except she had two of 'em. Or maybe it was Madonna."

Crowley snickered. "Of course a Winchester goes for the bullet bra."

"Hey!" .Sam pursed his lips, brows beetling. "I happen to be a Winchester!"

"Oh, my mistake. You like Gaga unplugged! The BB look." 

Dean rolled his eyes and waggled the can at Sam again. "Get over it both of you. Dog boy found the nipple can and you get to play with it, Sam." Dean smoothed a suggestive hand up the conical can and leered. "You'll need this. Time to get on your knees."

"Me?"

"Sure. You're gonna get his ankles and knees and I'll do the arms and jaw. Dean stepped back. Sam gave him a suspicious look, then pretzeled himself to the ground on those rubbery legs. Or the rubber legs were Dean's excuse. Admitting that getting up and down on in a skirt and those little chunky heels was too embarrassing. 

It took a while. They had to oil so many joints, including the one Crowley had defiled. As Dean finished his jaw, Cas shook himself loose and stepped forward like a Star Wars cosplayer after too many fruity drinks. The angel put that oiled jaw to use, though, and immediately started asking questions. "Dean, that is a new style for you. The shoes seem impractical. Why are you wearing them?" 

"Curse."

"Really?" The angel's brows knit with confusion, but then he was distracted. "Sam, you do not appear well. Why are you made of straw?

"What he said." Castiel looked back towards Dean as Sam pointed. Dean shrugged hugely, raised his brows and held out his hands in a "search me" gesture.

Cas tilted his head, puzzlement clear on his face. The expression grew as he looked down at himself, then slowly raised a hand to his chest. "This is not my host. This body is defective."

"No shit, Sherlock!" Crowley sat on his haunches, back foot happily thrashing behind his ear. "I'm a dog, laughing boy number one is a cross-dressing freak with no taste, and laughing boy number two is a stuffed shirt. Oh, wait, that would be normal for him."

"You continue to be as ill mannered as your usual wont, but you seem diminished, Crowley. Are you ill?"

Crowley huffed. Hopped up onto all four feet. "I'm sick as a dog, what do you think?"

"Is that the problem? I could . . ." He held out a hand, then looked baffled and shocked. He turned the hand up and stared at it as if it was a flat tire on a new car. "I cannot feel you. I cannot feel you and I cannot feel my heart." 

"Yeahhhh," sighed Sam. "That kind of figures. The Tin Woodsman wasn't exactly high on the unearthly firepower scale."

"It is because I . . . I have no heart, and if I only had a heart . . ." He had started to sing as his words went on and now he moved to the road, singing and whirling, feet tapping on the pavers in an animated shuffle. "I'd smite the evildoers, and demons would be fewer, and heaven's might would gain / I'd be gentle I'd be mighty but my sword would still be smitey, if a heart I had a-gain!" 

Sam, Dean and Crowley all stood frozen in awed horror, jaws slack as they they stared. Dean gave a full body shuffle and backed away slowly. "Yeah, we totally and absolutely need to get out of here. Let's get moving. Hell, if I have to, I'll even skip!"

"You promise, ruffle butt?"

Running on those little heels was a pain in the ass but when he caught up to Crowley, he actually found that hopping one legged while he kicked doggie butt was a lot like skipping. And it was worth it.

\-------------------

Yellow brick ran over rolling hills of grass under a steady sun. Cool breezes whispered through the fields, doing nothing to drown out the noisy fantasies of the four travelers walking the road. And talked. And talked. And talked some more.

". . . with cheddar cheese. And I'll get my vegetables just to make you happy, so put lettuce and tomato on it. And a pickle,"

"That's not a balanced meal, Dean."

"I want it an inch thick and still bloody in the middle. On an onion roll. With fries. A pile of fries that looks like one of those Japanese mountains but with ketchup instead of snow."

"Mt. Fuji and STILL not a balanced meal!"

"Like you care. You'd eat one too if we had it. A fucking AWESOME cheeseburger like they made in that little place outside of Austin. You remember?"

"That one where the waitress hit on you?"

Dean made a face. "Not that I've got anything against older women expressing their inner goddess, but the cankles weren't working for me."

Castiel frowned gently, his silvery face creasing in consternation. "Your bias is troubling, Dean. She was probably a lovely person and her sensuality would be only enhanced by her years of experience."

Crowley and Sam both made a little choking noise and briefly met each others' glance, then looked away snickering. Dean sighed. Then came to a stop, frowning. Shaded his eyes and squinted. "What is that?"

The other three also stopped. Crowley hopped up in the air, landed, hopped again. "It's obvious. It's a fucking black dot."

"Asshole." Dean aimed a half-hearted kick at at that little wiggly dog butt.

"Hate to say it, but Crowley's right." Sam shrugged. "Unless you've got binoculars in that basket of yours, a dot is a pretty accurate description."

"Ha-fucking-ha Sam. Cas. You're an angel. Use your magic angel vision."

"That is difficult when I am presently incarnated as a metal being rather than an angel" Cas wore a remorseful expression. "However that is no mere, ordinary dot. It is a dot of great and ancient power."

"Uh . . . thanks. Crowley. You're fast. Run up there and get a look."

"Fuck you, Winchester."

Sam and Castiel answered together, "And your little dog, too."

"Cute." Dean sighed. "Hi ho, hi fucking ho."

"Wrong movie." Crowley sneered. Then circled and crouched to leave another pile of crap like the countless piles he'd left along the way. 

Dean frowned, wrinkled his nose. "How much crap do you have in you, little dog? And what are you eating to make it stink like that? For that matter, what are you eating to even HAVE that much crap?"

"Demon dog," said Sam in a sing-song voice.

"I believe Sam is correct and that Crowley is manifesting the unholy powers of his kind."

"It's an unholy stink, that's for sure." Dean shifted onto one foot. Onto the other. Heaved a noisy sigh and started forward. "I guess we can't avoid it."

"Speak for yourself, you gingham clad menace."

Sam leaned down and scooped up Crowley's squirmy little body. "Unfortunately, I think all of us are on this team, Crowley."

"Fucking superfriends."

Castiel clanked after them. "But wasn't the team with the dog the Scooby Crew?"

"Which would make Crowley full of Scooby doo?" Sam broke into a toothy grin. 

Crowley wriggled, let loose a noisy fart and Sam dropped him. "Does that make Dress-chester Daphne?"

"It makes you an asshole,:" said Dean. He twirled the basket around his finger a couple times, then pulled a rock out of it. "Hopefully it's a whiny little dot that's afraid of rocks."

"That seems unlikely.," said Castiel. What had been a dot was now clearly a person of some sort. A sort of tawny, rounded-seeming person, with a tuft on top of his head. 

They approached, silent now. And the person tapped a foot and glared, whipping a skinny, tufted tail back and forth. "You're late."

The four travelers came to a stop, staring. Dean snorted, slapped a hand over his mouth and spun around, curling into a smothered laugh.

Sam had dropped Crowley. "Death?"

"Well?" Crowley wagged his tail and scampered in a circle. "Do your dance! And your song! We've seen the scarecrow and the tin angel. I've been wondering about Velma!"

Death stared at him. Curled a flexible lip back from square, stained teeth. "Little demon dog. You offend me."

Crowley yelped and ducked behind Castiel's thick, silvery leg.

Dean had gotten control of himself and turned back, fighting to keep his face solemn and respectful. "Uh. So. You been waiting long?"

"The instant I was dragooned into your benighted spell was an instant too long, Winchester. I am a very busy anthropomorphic entity, and you are wasting my time."

There was only one possible answer. Dean shrugged hugely, hands out, and said, "Oops?"

\-------------------------------  
TBC


	7. A pocket full of posies . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story continues. You've all seen it. Though maybe not the same version Dean saw . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, anyone you recognize belongs to their creators. Everything else is mine, mine, all MINE!

Chapter 7

"Are we there yet?" Dean reached under the dress, adjusting himself and really missing good old, supportive, comfortable, American jockeys and American (or maybe Chinese, who knew these days?) denim. 

"Shut up, Winchester. And get your hands off your snake." 

"I hate to agree with the demon dog, Dean, but when he's right he's right. Shut up. And, you know, the snake stuff too." Sam had long since stopped skipping. 

"I can't help it! The boys aren't used to bouncing around like this." He wriggled, still not happy with the results. Crowley snickered at the sight. Dean took a half-hearted kick at him. "And are we nearly there at least?"

"Dean," Castiel clanked gently but his jaw no longer creaked. "We are closer by the distance that we have walked since you last asked."

Dean sighed noisily. "It's a special ritual, Cas. It helps pass the time."

"More than time will pass if you ask again." Death's tail was whipping back and forth in the universal feline danger signal. Which was more than a little bit creepy when he was wearing something that looked like a baggy terry cloth onesie but the tail acted like a real cat's tail.

That was too much temptation to resist. Dean spun, walking backwards and stuck his tongue out at Sam. "But when will we be there? I'm bored!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I was five."

"And I swear, you made each minute feel like another five years with that stupid 'are we there yet?' crap! I think you asked Dad that maybe a gajillion times!"

"I can see it really helped you on your counting skills," grumbled Sam. "Next we can work on your patience and on not pissing off the people with you."

They all snuck a quick look at Death but regardless of what he'd said, he still wore the same ineffably disgusted look he'd had all along so it was hard to tell if he was more pissed, or still just the same amount of pissed as before. 

Dean spun back around. Took another ten steps. And then whined, "but are we there yet?"

Teeth sunk into his ankle and he stumbled, and Death's swipe went over his head. "OW! GEDOFFAME!"

"Shut UP Winchester!"

"But -" Crowley, little doggy Crowley, stood between him and Death and growled a cute, badly house-broken growl. 

Death came to a startled stop and stared at him, eyebrows arching upwards. Then down. "Do you think YOU can stop me?"

"I think if you kill him we might all end up stuck this way and there really are fates that are worse than death!"

Death blinked. Hard. And then stepped back. "Fair enough. Perhaps I'll simply wipe out his species and save the universe from one more irritation."

Dean shivered at the note of cold pique he heard. Then rallied. "You won't do that."

Death stared at him. "Why not?"

"Because if you do, you'll have to wait millions of years for somebody who can make that pizza you like so much to evolve." Dean looked smug.

"Billions," muttered Sam.

"Trillions," sighed Cas, correcting them both.

Death just looked sour. But when Dean turned around and started walking again, he didn't say it. Not again. He actually stayed quiet until, through the gnarled trees surrounding the road, they began to see the first hazy outline of spires against the horizon. Green, shiny spires.

Then they rounded a curve and found themselves at the edge of the woods, looking across a field of flowers to where misty green towers rose high. "Jesus. It looks like a lime popsicle up there."

Next to him, Sam tilted his head, narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and then shook his head. "No. Lime has a stronger yellow element. Those are definitely emerald, which is a good thing because Emerald City sounds a lot better than Lime Popsicle City."

"Thank you Martha Stewart." Dean rolled his eyes.

Castiel, on Sam's other side, said "The relative merits of lime versus emerald might depend on how you felt about popsicles. And whether you were thirsty."

Crowley had been scratching behind an ear but that brought a snort and a fart. "Thank you Rachel Ray."

"Copycat." 

"Copy DOG, Winchester."

"Idiots," was all Death said. 

"You girls can stand around and do each others' hair, I want to see the bright lights of the big city!" Dean marched forward, smacking the little heels of his shoes into the ground and stepping briskly as he plowed into the field of brilliant red flowers that lay between them and that city. 

"Dean!" Sam's voiced sounded a bit alarmed but when he looked back, Crowley was growling a little and Sam wore an odd, sheepish expression, but finally shrugged and walked into the field, following the trail of smashed flowers Dean had left. Crowley, Castiel, and Death weren't far behind.

The road wasn't visible under the flowers but that was okay. He could see Oz and the gently rolling land was easy to walk. But boring. It had to be really boring because he was yawning and slowing down as Sam and Cas caught up to him. They each took an arm and started shoving him along towards the city, keeping him moving. At his feet, Crowley was no longer scampering but instead, was dragging along with a determined look. He figured Death was bringing up the rear but it was too hard to raise his head and check. "Damn. Just . . .give me a minute."

"Not a good idea," said Sam.

"It would be unwise to stop here," added Castiel.

"I just want to rest my eyes . . . a minute." Dean yawned so widely his jaw cracked. "We'll get there -" yawn, "- I just want a nap."

These are poppies, Dean."

"They're soft. Just flowers."

Sam groaned. "Just poppies, Dean. Poppies."

TBC


	8. Poppies and push ups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When last we left our heroes, they were about to cross a vast sea of poppies, poppies, my precious . . oh, wrong movie. Well, it seemed right to post a flowery chapter for Valentine's Day, even if it's not roses.

Chapter 8

It was hard to keep walking. The air was sticky and it felt so good to just sit down for a minute. Just a minute, to rest. 

The poppies' scent hung even thicker as stems crumpled beneath him, cool against his bare knees. Dean blinked, trying to open his eyes, but saw only blurred red. He yawned again, and his eyes slid shut. 

"You cannot stop here," murmured Castiel. "Flowers have uncanny power in this place. You must not sleep,"

:"Too late." Dean wanted to keep walking, he really did, but his head was spinning and his legs were heavy and he couldn't keep his eyes open and then he was slumping down, out of their grasp and into the blooms and there was a foul smell that had to be a Crowley fart but the demon wasn't talking so that wasn't all that bad. 

He was drifting, hazily aware but too tired to open his eyes when he heard Sam gasp and yeah, the spirit was willing but Sam was going to have to deal with whatever it was on his own because the flesh was down for the count"

Sam didn't sound scared though, so that was good. "Bobby?

"Damn right you idiot|! This is NOT the place to take a break, Sam."

"Uh . . .what are you wearing?"

"It's a princess dress cause I'm such a damn pretty princess!" Dean smiled to himself at the familiar, sarcastic tone. "If you're done with the fashion show, Sam, how'd you like to get your idiot brother off the ground and get out of here?"

"We were attempting that, Mr. Singer, but I do not believe we will be able to continue."

Bobby snorted. There was a loud rustle of fabric and a yelp that sounded like Crowley. "Not the right answer, boys."

"Isn't this part sort of your show, Bobby?"

"I am trying to remember the movie. Never was a Judy Garland fan."

A helpful voice piped up, "Was this when they had the orgy with the flying hookers?"

"That's the porn version, Castiel."

"Snow." Death's voice was graveyard dust dry. "Even I have seen this movie. You make snow now."

"Like hell."

"But you do, Bobby. And it kills the flowers and - OW!" There was a sound like a ruler hitting someone's head.

"Do you idjits REALLY need me to point out that one of you is DEATH? Why waste time with snow when he can just do the job? Go on. Go agent orange on 'em, Tiger!"

:Lion." 

What happened next was noiseless. The ground didn't shake and a chill did not dull the warmth of the sun but suddenly there was a smell of rotting greenery and the drowsiness left Dean. Crowley yipped just as he sat up, looking around, to find Bobby with his arms crossed, crown sitting a little crooked on top of his head. Cas and Sam were staring around them and Crowley was slinking over, belly close to the ground, trying not to step on any of the blackened stems that were rotting, lying flat on the ground. Dean got slowly to his feet, seeing what had been bright red flowers lying black and rotted as far as the eye could see. He turned back to his companions, and Bobby was still there. Smiling. "See. Now get gone, boys. Sooner you get this done is the sooner that I am out of this goddamn dress!"

Dean watched him fade away, and could only agree. "A-fucking-men." And he turned and, with his little team of weirdos, slouched towards Oz.

\----------------

"I am beginning to agree with Winchester."

"Which one?" Dean heard Sam ask at the same time as him.

Death reached over without looking and pulled a long piece of straw out of Sam's ear. He held it up, examined it, sneered, and said "not you."

"Oh that burns!" Chortled Crowley.

Castiel watched him toss the straw away, eyes following its arc. "You agree with Dean?" He sounded puzzled.

"Yes. Are we there yet? I don't believe I've ever encountered a curse that required such a lot of pointless meandering."

Dan pumped his fist in the air. "When the man's right, he's right. Or, you know, anthropomorphic embodiment. How long have we been walking around this damn city?"

"Seven hours, twenty-two minutes and five seconds. Six. Seven." Crowley droned the count.

"It's not even a real city!" Dean knew he sounded offended. He WAS offended. And he was limping. And really, really offended. "I mean, look at it! It's a big, shiny, green popsicle! Where are the suburbs? Where are the strip malls? Where's Hooters?"

"I don't think I've ever heard a stronger recommendation for a walled city." Sam reached out and rapped what should have been a knuckle against the smooth, glassy, green surface. His hand made a rustling noise.

"I have to agree with Death, though." Castiel sighed noisily. "It's a shame this version doesn't have the flying hookers. They'd have saved us a lot of time."

Dean paused, contemplating the flying hookers. "We really need to do movie night some time, Cas. I want to see your Netflix list."

"Of course. I have -"

"Hey, I think there's a door!" 

Dean grinned at the relieved tone in Sam's voice as his brother cut the angel off. Then he looked up and the grin broke into a leering laugh. "Look! The door's green!"

"So?" Sam, Cas and Crowley were all looking at him, baffled. Death was pointedly ignoring them all.

"'Behind the Green Door!"

Sam still looked baffled. Cas's face cleared with recognition. And Crowley rolled his eyes and said "That's a DIFFERENT porn version, Dean. Don't get your porn movies confused."

"You saying I'm getting my chocolate in your peanut butter, Crowley?" Dean 

"I"m saying you're a philistine who lacks appreciation of a classic expression of one of the great sins, Winchester."

"I totally appreciate lust! I am a lusty luster!"

"Are we there yet?" Death groaned the words.

"I hope so. I really want a burger."

"That sounds so good." Sam sighed gustily. And blew out a piece of straw. "I hate you Dean."

Dean watched it drop to the ground, then trotted up the small flight of stairs to something that looked like the back door on a mansion to pound on the door. "Candygram for Mongo! Candygram for Mongo!"

Nothing happened. So he did it again.

And again.

And then a small window in the door opened and a man with a vast and absurd handlebar mustache peered out. "There's no Mongo here! Go away!"

Dean winced as he slammed the peephole door. Castiel stepped up beside him. "How rude." The tin angel knocked. "Or perhaps he dislikes Mel Brooks."

"Only idiots dislike Mel Brooks," Muttered Dean as he waited, tense and ready. Cas knocked again. Again, there was the sound of a bolt sliding, and the window yanked open and the mustached face was right there, and Dean grabbed the ends of that mustache and pulled.

"AAAAGH!" screamed the mustache's owner.

"Let us in!" Snarled Dean, twisting the 'stache.

Sam, Death and Crowley just stood back and waited. It kind of warmed Dean's heart. His little brother might be an emo bitchface but he was still a hunter and he wouldn't argue with success. Much. 

He would, and did, sound vaguely apologetic, however, as he noted, "You know, it would have been so much easier if you just let us in. You know you're going to let travelers in so why the act?"

"Probably waiting for a bribe. As if the chick in the story could give him anything that wouldn't get him arrested for statutory rape."

"MMMMPF!"

"You gonna let us in now?" Dean let up just enough so that the guy's lip wasn't stretched half a foot. 

"I will! I will! Jus' leggo!"

"Fuck that. Instant I let go you're slamming the window. I'm not stupid! And I am really hungry and I am SICK of standing out here in these goddamn shoes and I'm sick of my brother being full of straw and Crowley being full of crap!"

"HEY!"

"Crowley's always full of crap," noted Sam.

"Doesn't mean I'm not sick of it! Dean gave the mustache another little shake and this time its owner shoved himself all the way to the side of his window. They could hear him pawing at the door and then there was a click and and a creak and he was backing up, opening the door, as Dean followed without relinquishing his hold until they were all inside. Then he smiled, let go, reached through the window to pat the guard's face and said, "Thank you, and have you been saved?"

"Leave him alone, Dean." Sam and Cas pulled him away as the guard slammed the big, green door and scuttled into a little guardhouse that huddled in against the wall. They ignored him and turned away, finding themselves in a small, oddly sterile town square full of people in weird, boxy clothes, and a cart with a horse that changed colors. Dean licked his lips.

"Can you eat rainbow horse?"

"It would be wrong to devour that man's property, Dean," Cas said. "But he may be willing to guide us to food."

"And an exit." Death actually made a little purring noise, face briefly dreamy with the thought. 

"Give it up." Crowley sounded resigned. "We're only halfway through this ordeal."

"True." Cas nodded. "There's still the dominatrix in the witch's castle"

Dean swallowed hard. "You know, from what I remember, that might not even be the porn version."

Crowley heaved a noisy sigh. "The porn version would definitely be more fun."

TBC


	9. Brazilians are from hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Emerald City has all the amenities, including a spa. Our boys get pimped and primped.

Dean's stomach growled. Loudly. Sam sidled up next to him. "You're making me kind of glad I'm full of straw."

A quick glance at Sam found that weird, burlappy skin but a terrifically familiar expression of amusement too. And maybe, hard to be sure it was so small, but maybe a hint of sympathy. Hard to tell when it was such a tiny amount. He sighed. "You should have let me eat the horse."

"Dean, it would be unthinkable to have devoured such a fine animal, and his owner's livelihood too!" Castiel's appalled expression put both brothers into stifled snickers. 

"I've never eaten a multicolored horse before. Wonder if it'd taste like Juicyfruit."

Sam rolled his eyes and did a little spin that was starting to seem like a scarecrow version of a nervous tic. "I doubt it. I bet it's poisonous. Maybe radioactive too. Normal edible animals don't change colors like that."

"If you'd let me just eat the thing then we'd know, wouldn't we?" Dean put on his most reasonable voice. "And on top of that, I wouldn't be hungry! It'd be a win-win."

"I"m with Winchester on this one. Some horsemeat would be just about right!" Crowley paused to pee on a lime green shrub. They were walking along a broad boulevard that ran into the town. There had been a horse and carriage - what the driver said was a horse of a different color - but when Dean had eyed it woflishly and his stomach had growled, the animal had whinnied in terror and bolted away. Or maybe it was the sight of Death. Or maybe not. Probably not. No, now that he thought about, the horse couldn't have seen Death yet. So. Yeah, Him. And his stomach. Which growled again.

And that was when the kamikazi cosmeticians surrounded them. "You wish to see the wizard!" Dean got that bit, at least, sung in that weird, high, echoey way that all the flash mobs in Oz seemed to favor. The downside was that it set his teeth on edge. The upside, of course, was that it made Crowley howl and try to put his paws over his ears and maybe it was careless on his part, but Dean was laughing so hard at the demon dog that they were surrounded before he really noticed. 

Not that anyone seemed too alarmed. In fact, Sam stepped up on his right side and looped an arm through his, while Cas did the same to the other arm, holding him in place while the wretched lime pop brigade sang and danced and made Crowley howl (silver lining!) until they stopped and all said "You are here to see the Wizard?"

"Uh . . . " Dean blinked, stunned by the sonic assault.

Sam poked him in the ribs and hissed, "Say yes."

"Yeah! Yes. We're here to see the Wizard." The mob tittered like Elton John at a Sunglass Hut and they were suddenly urged along, faster, down a sort of glow-stick green side street and into a shop where Dean found himself shoved into something that he thought might be a dentist's chair. He got half up, spinning to look for Sam and then relaxed as he found Castiel easing into a chair to his right, and Sam was just past him, perched on the edge of what looked disturbingly like an autopsy table but, since the guy was full of straw, probably wasn't. He heard an angry growl and a yelp and, okay, whatever this was, it was never going to be not fun to see a batch of green-overdressed dorks trying to pick up Crowley. And it was almost as good to then find that Death was sitting in the chair to his left, scowling at nervous attendants who huddled in a small group, watching him. And that was when the seatback dropped and there was water on his head and someone was washing his damn hair and singing about merry old Oz and fuck it, he was secure in his masculinity and all that but this guy was NOT a person he'd normally trust near his head with sharp scissors, blunt instruments, or a handful of lather and that was not a good thing to think because that was when some joker on the other side of him started lathering up his chin.

"We must say, we were told to expect a young lady and her companions, Sir, but don't worry, we'll have that stubble shaved in no time!" 

He started to reach for the guy with the shaving brush but his hands were grabbed and someone was . . . oh fuck, filing his nails! And he might have fought that but he could hear Sam laughing his ass off and Castiel saying "Oh yes, could you please buff that spot!" and the whine of power tools scraping brushes over metal. And, of course, Crowley yelping as the weirdos were singing "Scrub scrub scrub, brush and rub, shave and comb and shine, that's how we like things here in Oz where it's lovely all the time!"

"Fucking nuts all the time! You okay Sam?" And okay, yeah, his hunter instincts were screaming at him not to let anyone with a razor near his throat but then Cas was making happy angel-bot sounds and Crowley was cursing and attendants were groaning about dog farts and Death was sitting right there, on his other side, saying, "I advise you to sit still, Winchester. You can decide which is the greater danger to your life. Allowing that fool to actually give you a decent shave, or creating a scene and making me sit through this longer than I should have to."

And, okay, yeah, the thought of pissing off Death more than he already was did sort of freeze a guy's balls and make him hold very still and let the creepy green hairdresser and his creepy green barber friend finish up the shampoo and shave they were doing. Not to mention the unseen minions working on his fingernails, and who knew that cuticles could be that interesting? 

When they finally let him sit up, though, he sort of wished that they'd taken a little longer. The sight of Sam, laid out on that table with his shirt open as men and women shoved straw into his body cavity . . yeah, that'd be another nightmare to add to his collection, even though Sam was laughing like it tickled. He rolled his head, dark hair and straw sticking out from under that weird hat, and grinned at Dean. "It's okay. They aren't hurting me. And are they painting your nails?"

"WHAT?" Dean tore his attention away from Sam to find, to his horror, that a French manicure was underway. Not to mention the barber had shown back up with another bowl of lather and he was eying Dean's legs. He looked up to smile at Dean.

"Have you ever had your legs shaved?"

"NO!"

"Perhaps a Brazilian wax?"

"Get away from me now or I will shove that brush up your ass." He kept a smile on his face and his voice low and hoped like hell that Cas and Sam hadn't overheard that one, but then got distracted by the sight of Crowley, lathered up and yelping in outrage as he was scrubbed, rinsed, scrubbed again. And it was actually worth letting them finish his damn nails to sit there and laugh at the Demon King being toweled, combed, and a pretty little bow that matched Dean's dress pinned on top of his head. Of course, he had to fight off a similar bow they wanted to plant on his own manly scalp but still, worth it. 

And Death. Who sat there, scowling but aloof, as he was combed, fluffed, and another dorky bow tied in his top knot and one on his tail. Dean swallowed hard at the look in those cold eyes and decided that terror and hysterical laughter were an interesting mix. "Remember, you kill all the humans, you get no pizza for billions of years. You're a bigger anthro-whatever deity than that."

"Agreed. For now, Angelo's stands between you and the abyss."

"I found that invigorating." Cas didn't sound invigorated, but he did look shiny. Very, very shiny. 

Dean looked him up and down. "Looks like they got all your nooks and crannies, my friend."

"Not really. I was somewhat disappointed that this version of the story did include all the elements of the movie I saw."

"Do I want to ask?" 

"There was no bottlebrush. In the Wizard of Jizz, they spent much time polishing the . . ." He paused, clearly trying to remember a term. Dean waited, keeping a patient, open expression on his face and biting down on the inside of his cheek. Hard.

Crowley's irritated voice saved the angel. "The puckered starfish of passion, you celestial idiot. If you're going to quote the porn version, at least try to get it right."

"Puck . . " Dean lost it. He doubled over, whooping and tears were running down his face and when Sam joined them and Death repeated the conversation, Dean gave up, sat down, and howled. And didn't even mind that Crowley was howling with him. 

The thing that finally forced him to stop was when the hairdresser started to fuss and came at him with a make up puff and even that might not have done it if he hadn't seen the barber hopefully heating up wax. The thought of a Brazilian would sober up any man and it sure did that for Dean, getting him on his feet to scoop up Crowley and out get of there for the good of his follicles. The little dog demon peered back over his shoulder and said "You'd better keep going. I'd want a couple of streets between me and them if I were you."

He glanced around, made sure that Sam and Cas and the newly fluffed and combed Death were with him, and kept going. "Tell the truth. Brazilians. Your people invented them, right?"

"Demons have limits, Dean. We won't go that low. My money's on the Leviathans for that one."

"I hate to say it, but I actually believe you on that." He stopped and put the dog down, briefly thankful that Crowley had, for once, not farted. Though he happily let rip now.

"What? I held it!"

"You're disgusting."

"Deee-mon," sing-songed Sam, catching up to them. 

"Have you finished primping yet? Any other mortal vanities to indulge?" Death snarled as he whipped his tail, then draped it over his arm like a stole. 

"Uh, no, I think we're about done here." Dean gave him, an apologetic smile, then clapped his hands and looked around at his not-so-merry few, and said, "Okay. So. Let's go see the wizard!"

\-------------------------

TBC


	10. Import Cars, Butt Tunes, and the Wicked Witch of the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the boys have primped, preened, and had their mani-pedis (at least the ones who don't have ruby slippers they can't take off), it's time to visit the Great And Powerful Oz.

Chapter 10

Emerald streets past emerald buildings with green signs and shamrocks and more goddamn GREEN were everywhere.

"I am getting really fucking tired of green," sighed Dean. 

Crowley barked briefly, then glanced up at him. "The place does cry out for red spray-paint gang tags."

"Perhaps some nice Keith Haring street art," added Castiel.

Crowley wheeled around to glare at Castiel, sneering in offense. "It's not fun anymore when angels start doing it." 

"Behave, kids. We're here."

"Finally," breathed Death.

"At least you have guts." Sam sounded mournful.

"You're both bipedal," growled Crowley.

"Rustproof," sighed Cas.

Dean stared at them. Shook his head slowly. "Hopeless." And turned to run up the stairs to the big, barred door they'd been told was the Wizard's. And pounded. And pounded some more. And again. And again. And turned to launch some sidekicks at it. The pounding could be heard echoing inside the building. 

Crowley had moved up to sit at his feet. He cocked his head, listening, then turned back to Dean. "I think I hear footsteps. Do it again."

Dean shifted his balance, ready to kick again then stopped. Glared at Crowley. "Move back."

The demon dog pouted. "Why?"

"Because you're looking up my skirt, you perv."

"I'm a dog. What would I care?"

"You tell me."

Crowley's face split in a wide grin. "Well. The ruffles do flutter nicely."

Dean kicked at him. Then spun and kicked at the door again, and this time a small shutter opened and another one of those mustachioed faces peered out. "Go away!" Mustache slammed the little shutter.

"Hey!" Dean pounded, then started kicking again and this time Cas joined in, thumping on the door with his ax until the shutter opened again and the mustache guard peered out. "Are you still here?"

"What do you think?" snarled Dean, lunging for his mustache. 

This one must have gotten a memo however, because he clapped his hands over his mustache and backed a step away from the door, where he had more room to duck Dean's lunge. "I told you to go away! We don't want whatever you have!'"

Castiel shoved his ax into the small window in the door and very politely said, "I believe you have misunderstood us, Sir. We're just here to see the Wizard."

Sam had come up on Dean's other side and was holding the shutter back, looking beseechingly in at the guard. "Really, we've got a long, long way. Please?"

"Didn't you see the sign?" The guard snarled, then held up a sign. 

"No Solicitors, Scouts, or Nuts?" Dean blinked. Then growled. "We are NOT selling anything, we are not Jehovah's Witnesses, and we don't even have any Girl Scout Cookies, we are just here to the see the Wizard. Okay? Now let us in!"

"Come back next month." The guard was trying to grab for Castiel's ax but the angel kept moving it in threatening little gestures.

Dean frowned. "Listen. You let us in or . . .or . . . " He suddenly pointed at Death. "Or this guy here will kill your family."

"I don't have any family," the guard sounded smug.

"Your house-pets!"

"Nope!"

"Your PLANTS!"

"All fake!"

"You let us in or my dog will crap right in front of your door. And believe me, he is FULL of crap." 

"That's true. I can leave a turd the size of a small imported car." Crowley sounded very proud of his potential.

The guard moved forward to stare out the door at Crowley, while still covering his facial hair with a hand. Frowned. "I don't believe you."

Crowley farted. Loudly. Lengthily. And tuned it, somehow managing to butt whistle a song. It might have been 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' but the stink was enough to singe a man's nose hairs and Dean wasn't paying attention to Crowley's virtuosity because he was trying to get away without falling down the stairs. Apparently scarecrows and tin men had noses that worked because Sam, and Cas were racing away too, not to mention Death, whose nose was probably better than any of theirs, god help him. Crowley finished on a loud blatting noise and smiled winsomely up at the guard. "If I can fart like that, imagine what else I can do."

The guard's face was pale, eyes bugging out wide, and he held his nose as well as guarding his 'stache, staring in horrified awe at the beast that stood before his door. And finally, in a voice tinged with forlorn hope, said "Your guts must be empty by now." 

Crowley let loose a shorter, but still pungent and noisy burst and the guard quailed, cried out, and yanked open the towering main door. "All right! All right! Stop making that stink and don't . . .don't do anything else. Get in here!"

All five of them crowded in quickly, before he could change his mind, and huddled in the shadows as he slammed the huge door behind them. He spun, and pointed to a wide, tall, hallway that ran off into misty green distance. "There. Follow that hallway. And do NOT fart in the Wizard's presence, you horrible little beast!"

Dean and the others looked down the hall. They turned to watch the rapidly retreating guard in his fancy embroidered coat, then down the hall again. And Dean sighed. "Fuck it. How hard can this be? If we don't like him, we can kill him."

"I don't think the curse will work like that," Sighed Sam, but he tucked an arm through Dean's and they started down the hall.

"Dude, you don't need to hold hands. That's just creepy."

"Go with it. It's part of the theme." Sam, beside him, smiled a little, and then wider as Cas moved up on Dean's other side and also tucked a hand under his elbow. 

"Cas, could you please not embarrass me in front of the demon?"

"But it feels right, Dean. I believe Sam is correct about this being part of the theme."

At least Death hung back and that was probably just as well. Crowley scampered at their feet and for once, was quiet. And not stinky. Mostly. 

The walk wasn't short, though it probably wasn't as long as it seemed. Dean's stomach growled. Perhaps the Wizard heard him or perhaps it was just his stomach's usual great timing, but that was the moment a voice rang out that echoed down the hall and beat at their eardrums. "Who goes there!"

They all had cringed, and Dean's only comfort was seeing Crowley and Death hunched down as much as him and Sam and Cas. But now he stood and faced down the hall. "It sure as shit ain't Dorothy Gale! I'm Dean Winchester and I am here for a ticket out of this lunatic asylum! Send us back to Los Angeles! Or Kansas or really, pretty much anyplace on earth."

There was a long pause, silence echoing as much as the voice had done, and then the voice thundered, "Why?"

Dean blinked. Glanced at Sam, Death, Cas. Opened his mouth to answer and then Crowley farted in a noise like firecrackers and a smell that could only come from the depths of hell. And Dean played the hand he was dealt. "Send us home or my dog will sit here and fart up your castle until the day we die!"

There were small gagging, choking noises that nonetheless had that bad-speakers-in-the-school-gym sound that characterized the Wizard's voice, and then a strangled but still loud voice said, "You must bring me her - gaggg - broomstick!"

"Broomstick?" Dean might have had sympathy for the gagging but the request had wiped out his admittedly tiny store of good will towards this fickle, powerful being. His store of confusion, however, was much larger than his store of good will and it was in confusion that he asked, "What broomstick?"

"The broomstick of the Witch of the West!" The Wizard sounded a bit stronger though still not up to his usual thundering tones. "Bring me her broomstick! Then I will help!"

"But . . ."

 

"No buts! Go!"

And with that order, a series of doors that had lain along the walls slammed shut before them, and a howling breeze blew past them. Dean knew a cue to go when he saw it, so he went, if that was the right word for panicked, full-out retreat.

Yeah, went was a much better word.

So he went.

And went. 

And went. 

All the way down the long, long halls and that hallway seemed just as long going back as it had going to the Wizard, though it took a lot less time when he was running. Wind howled and doors slammed behind him. Dean was pretty sure that he looked ridiculous, running along on those little red heels with his gingham skirt and his apron flapping around his legs. Not that anyone would notice him when Cas was clanking and Sam was wobbly legged and Death's tail was whipping back and forth and, best of all, Crowley's little dog butt was waggling back and forth as he raced along, yelping, chased by those big, closing doors that made enough noise to cover the undignified clatter of their footsteps until they dashed out the door like they were being spit out by a huge throat.

And that's where they stopped.

Cold. 

All five of them.

If Dean had been asked to name a person he never wanted to see waiting for him, he'd have had to really think about it. That would be a very, very long list but he had to admit, Lucifer would be right up at the top of it. 

So of course, when they pelted out of that green hallway, there he was, patiently waiting, arms crossed and broomstick tucked neatly under his arm. Dean couldn't have stopped faster if he'd run into a wall. He was sure that his companions stopped just as quickly (though maybe Death sauntered a few more steps) but he wasn't paying attention to them. 

Lucifer smiled at them with that creepily benign expression he always wore. The fallen angel was tall, but he stood a little taller as he stood there, in the pointy, heeled shoes that should have, and really did, look ridiculous but it was hard to muster a laugh in the face of that calmly malign gaze. Dean let his eyes drop from the amused stare, taking in the striped stockings and the ragged edges of the black dress that went with the shoes. And slowly looked back up, skipping the face to take in the tall, tall, conical hat with its wide brim before he finally looked back down to meet Lucifer's stare. 

Or he would have if Sam hadn't sidled in front of him at that moment. "Lucifer. What are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" His voice was as warm and friendly as ever. 

Dean shivered at the tone then tugged Sam to the side and stepped on front of his brother. "The stockings are an interesting fashion choice, man. I never took you for the striped stocking type." 

"Not your best effort, Dean." Lucifer flipped his broomstick up and twirled it like a cheerleader with a baton. "But that's okay. It's tough to look cool when you're dressed like a Kansas schoolgirl."

"And that bag lady look is so much better?" Dean crossed his arms, looking Lucifer up and down in a long, slow, sweep. Or would have if Sam hadn't been tugging him back and edging in front of him again and Dean hissed "will you relax and back off? You're wrecking my flow here!"

"That's not flow and that -" He nodded towards the tall, smiling creature standing there, twirling his broom, "Is not some loser for you to trade witty banter."

"Is that what he's trying to do?" Lucifer chuckled.

There was a clank and now Castiel was stepping in front of Dean too. "Is this your doing, Lucifer? Is this some entertainment to make eternity amusing?"

Lucifer rolled his eyes, shaking his head in rueful humor. "Oh Castiel, you are my rock. The spirit of paranoia lives."

"The Fallen One happens to be correct. Irritating, but correct." Death's voice rasped, dry and harsh. "A curse strong enough to snare me would easily snare an angel, even a powerful and terrible one. "

Lucifer flipped his broomstick out to point it at Death and smiled a game show host's smile. "And the prize goes to . . .Death! I can tell you weren't the one who needed a brain."

Death's tail draped over his arm with casual elegance. "Nor do I need courage. However I do need this wretched charade to end."

"I think that can be arranged." Lucifer smiled at him, then turned the same smile onto Dean. His skin crawled and for a moment he thought he smelled a stink, like insects burning under a magnifying glass. Lucifer stepped closer. "Sorry I skipped the skywriting, but 'surrender Dean' lacked a certain something. You'll just have to settle for 'I'll get you, my pretty.'" He cackled with affected melodrama.

Dean flinched at the sound, then Sam was shoving in front of him again. "No, you can't have him."

"Oh Sam. I do miss you." Lucifer's smile softened, then went sharp as he leaned to one side to leer at Dean. "But I will get you. And . . oh yes . . .your little dog too!"

Dean jumped like he'd been stung as Crowley snarled, then scurried behind his legs. And that was just too much to take. He leaned down, scooping up the doggy body, ignoring Crowley's curses, and held him out. "Promise? You'll take him?"

Lucifer leaned away like he'd been offered something horrible and stared at Crowley, then laughed and reached out to grab his ears. Crowley wriggled and yelped as Lucifer tucked him under one arm, then reached out faster than Dean could follow and snagged his wrist, too, yanking Dean to his side. "That was easy."

"No!" Sam's shout and Castiel's came together, and both of them lunged, then smoke was billowing up and Lucifer's hand was tight and chill around Dean's wrist. There was that smell again, and Crowley's terrified whine, and then the dark of the smoke was behind his eyes too and he felt himself slip away into the dark, sight and sound and senses fading away. And then nothing, and he was gone.

\---------------

TBC


	11. Exotic breath, Joan Crawford shoulders, and Cable in Oz

Chapter 11

Dean Winchester considered himself to be an expert in many things. He was a master of edged, blunt, and projectile weapons. Beyond skilled in hand-to-hand combat. A premier talent in relative qualities of cheap domestic beer, and he was a true adept in bad ways to wake up. 

There were many bad ways to wake up. On the "simply unpleasant" end of the scale came the variations on hungover, aching, and bruised. Then there was waking up to a stranger in the room, and waking up to the expected people, usually Sam, NOT being in the room. Then there were the different flavors of regaining consciousness, which was distinctly different and universally worse than simply waking up. 

Regaining consciousness was never a good sign, and the standard response was always to lie still, eyes closed, faking it while he tried to gather intel on what kind of not-good he was working with. Headache, of course. That was typical for regaining consciousness, though not guaranteed. To the positive was that he could probably rule out being beaten half to death since he didn't otherwise hurt. He could rule out being tied up this time, and rule out being pinned to a ceiling by a demon. He could also rule out wearing pants since his legs were cold and a breeze was tickling his leg hairs and while that wasn't a completely new experience, it was on the relatively exotic end. 

Also exotic was waking up to dog breath. He only remembered one, perhaps two cases of dog-breath-consciousness but that was enough for him to know that this was no ordinary dog breath. Sad to say, this was truly awful dog breath. Or demon dog breath. Which either meant that an unknown supernatural beast was nuzzling in his ear or, worse, that his legs were cold because he was wearing a goddamn blue checked gingham dress and red kitten heels and the cold nose in his ear belonged to . . 

"Wake up you filthy meat sack. I'm tired of waiting for you to stop faking it!"

Dean groaned and smacked at the doggie monster next to his head, shoving it away. "Get off me, Crowley."

"Then quit lying around on the job, hunter."

"Recovering from unconsciousness, here! Give me a minute." He sat up and pushed his skirt down to cover his knees as he looked around. Huh. Waking up in a strange room. What a surprise. "Great. Very dungeon."

"More like castle tower, Rapunzelchester. The door's locked. I couldn't jump high enough to see how far up we are." Crowley scowled.

Dean looked at the window, picturing Crowley hopping up and down like a Jack Russell on a caffeine tear and had to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing. Make that bite down to TRY to keep from laughing. 

Crowley curled a lip at him and lifted a leg. Dean frowned and wagged a finger. "Do it and you find out how far up we are because I will throw you out that window."

Crowley waggled slightly, caught mid-lift, then lowered the leg to the floor. "Then get to it, hunter, and get us out of here."

"Me? Why me?" Dean slung his legs off the bed and got to his feet, wincing at the ache that spiked behind his eyes. "You're demonic. Why aren't you using your amazing demon powers to get us out of here?"

"Because I doubt my unearthly dog farts will melt stone walls, you idiot. I tried to pick the lock but . . .oh yes. I'm only twelve inches high because I'm a dog. Besides. It's your curse. Your job to get us out of here."

Dean sighed and wished he could just boot the wretched demon but fairness said Crowley was right. Besides, kicking him would probably put a jolt up his leg and make his headache spike. Or, worse, he might lose balance on those nasty little heels and fall over. Safer to just use his feet to walk to the window and get a lungful of fresh air. 

"Well? How high are we?"

"High."

"You should jump. It's you that Lucifer wants. You'd survive. You excel at that. Unfortunately."

Dean leaned out and studied the stone walkway that waited approximately thirty feet under the window. "I excel at surviving because I don't do stupid ass shit like jumping out of high windows to get smashed up on stone sidewalks." He took a minute to look around. Vertical, gray, stone walls, slippery with moss. Peaked roofs. Stone walkway-parapet thingies. Moat. Drawbridge. Unwelcoming landscape of cliffs and stunted, ugly forests. Ugly lackeys in weird uniforms marching around. Yep. Classic evil lair, deluxe edition. 

"Well?" Crowley was standing at his feet, looking up at him with an anxious expression. He was actually meeting Dean's eyes instead of looking up his skirt the way he usually did. 

"Still tempted to toss you out the window."

"I'd be tempted to let you, just to get away from you but Lucifer would probably resurrect me and put me back in here with you."

Dean cringed at the thought of a broken, dragging, oozing demon dog. "Yeah, okay, not gonna throw you out the window." He turned away from the useless window to circle the room. The door was heavy slabs of wood, bound by iron cross pieces and thoroughly locked. He studied the tiny gap between the door and the stone jamb. No bolt. Overlap. He sighed and mentally sketched in a cross bar barricading the door. Pick proof. Great. 

Inside the room were a few pieces of furniture. There was a bed with a tacky coverlet like the Indian tourist-trade cloth in a co'eds room, there was a table with a big ass crystal ball like a bowling ball made of glass. A couple of torches and candelabra were jutting from the walls, and he spent a moment considering whether he could use those but the walls were fireproof. All he'd do was kill himself with smoke. Oh, yeah, and Crowley too. No air vents. No handy escape hatches. He studied the coverlet a moment, wondering if he could tear and tie it into a cloth rope but the cloth looked too flimsy. Just as well. Being caught by the minions in the Joan Crawford shoulder pads and the funky fur hats would be embarrassing. Especially since they'd probably be checking out his ruffly panties for about a dozen feet before he got low enough to safely drop to the ground and get into a fight against overwhelming odds. 

Good times.

Crowley whined, snuffling at the door. "You can pick electronic locks and steal artifacts from safes under unholy wards and you can't break us out of a medieval lockbox like this shithole?"

"It's not a shithole yet, and if you try to take a crap I will shove a cork up your ass." The threat was issued idly, by habit. Dean circled again. Nothing. In frustration and boredom, he finally focused on the crystal ball, wondering if he could drop it onto a guard just for entertainment. He reached out to touch it. Warm. Oddly so. Then it flickered and he jumped, yanked his hand away and it went clear again. "Huh."

"What?"

"The crystal ball does . . . stuff."

"So? It's a crystal ball." Crowley sounded puzzled. "Old fashioned but traditional."

Dean shot him a look, then went back to studying the crystal globe. Reached out and rested his palm on its curve. It warmed more under his hand, swirling with shadows and blurs that resolved into an image that brought a soft cry of recognition to his lips, a warm feeling of love and longing to his heart. Dean leaned in close, touching the smooth stone with his other hand as he breathed, "Baby!"

The Impala's image hovered there, faint highlights on its glossy black paint, safe in the hired garage where he'd left here. Dean smiled at the familiar, powerful lines, then jerked back as the image swirled into Lucifer's blandly handsome face. The fallen angel frowned then his eyes focused on Dean's and a snide grin ghosted over his features. "Dean! I see you've found the scrying ball. It's the closest thing to cable we've got."

Dean backed away, rubbing his hands on the skirt at his sides. Lucifer rolled his eyes. "I'll get around to killing you in a bit, Dean, but I'm sort of busy right now. Just because you hijacked me into your curse doesn't mean all my other responsibilities go away."

Dean frowned. "Responsibilities? What? Sitting around in a metaphysical pit talking to yourself?"

"Haunting your brother. I pride myself on my craftsmanship. Look, I'll get around to you and the upstart in a while. For now, just make yourself at home, watch the crystal ball. I'd suggest you consider the error of your ways but it's a little late to learn not to play with locally potent curses."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind. Just . . ." He sighed as Lucifer's image faded from the ball's depths, then stiffened as the swirling shadows in the ball coalesced again, this time showing him faces. Familiar ones. Sam and Cas and Death, disconsolate. Or Sam was. Castiel's tin body didn't allow for much in the way of body language and Death, of course, just looked like Death. Irritated. But they were traveling at a very brisk pace on a road that did not look anything like the yellow bricks that had left Dean with sore feet for so many days. They were surrounded by stunted forest, jagged, steep hillsides and cliffs under gloomy skies. 

Dean swallowed hard. He knew that landscape. He'd seen it surrounding the castle in which he stood. He blinked hard, watching the mismatched rescuers he saw in the crystal ball. The crystal ball that Lucifer could probably see too.

Which meant that Sam and Cas and Death weren't coming to the rescue. They were coming to a trap.

He rubbed hard at his eyes and groaned. "Great. We are so screwed."

\--------------

TBC


	12. Haunch of flying monkey and other exercises in poor taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while! Real life does get in the way of one's fanfic.
> 
> Let me think, let me think . . . ah yes. Dean. Lucifer. Crowley. Castle. FLYING MONKEYS! 
> 
> Thank you for rejoining me for more of this deathless work of whatever it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course all characters you recognize belong to other people. MGM and Kripke and L. Frank Baum's estate and people or people-like entities of the kind. No harm, no foul.
> 
> BTW, like all ficcers, I do love feedback. Don't be shy.

\--------------

Chapter 12

The stone walls of his tower cell were fucking cold. Dean knew that because he had his back pressed up against one and it sucked but he really wasn't ready to step away from the wall. Doing that would be moving closer to the tray that sat by the door. He swallowed against the sour taste in his throat and shot a glance at Crowley. "You should eat."

Crowley huddled under a chair. "I'll eat the leftovers. But you need to keep your strength up."

Dean cringed, sniffed gingerly at the air. "It doesn't smell that bad."

"You're a big, brave hunter. You can handle a little snack like that. They already killed it for you after all." Crowley sounded like he was aiming for snide, but the anxious note undermined the carping. 

"I don't eat anything that was delivered by a flying monkey."

"We've been here three days." A distinct whine edged his voice. "We need to eat something!"

"I'm not stopping you!"

"I can't eat it unless a taster tries it first. It's a thing." Crowley peeked out from under the chair, shooting him what might been intended as cute puppy-dog eyes if he'd been either cute or a real puppy-dog.

Dean edged away from the wall, closer to the tray. "What do you think it is?"

Crowley sniffed again. "Haunch of flying monkey?"

Dean blinked. Thought about those ugly little fuckers and slowly smiled, just a little. "Yeah. I can do that." 

Crowley snorted. "You'd do anything that had a pulse. And I'm sure some things that don't."

"You know, dog is supposed to be very tasty." Dean had gotten close it. So far it hadn't lunged at him. It just sat there, looking braised and happy next to the loaf of bread and the jug of beer, flanked by a mug and a bowl. He crouched. "They gave us beer. The alcohol should kill any bacteria."

"Oh, definitely," drawled the demon dog. "It's such a shame I only have paws and can't raise a mug."

Dean rolled his eyes. Then reached out fast before he could change his mind and wrenched a chunk off the roast leg of mystery meat. It was a little greasy but it didn't feel like it was going to come back to life or turn on him or anything. He dropped it in the bowl, poured beer on top of it, and set it down. "Dinner is served. Sorry I don't have any Grey Poupon."

Crowley sidled over and sniffed at it. Lapped at the beer. Made a face. "It tastes like cheap American frat boy crap beer."

"Do I need to remind you that Lucifer runs this place?"

Crowley sighed. "Point." 

The bread was crusty and actually looked pretty good. Dean took a chunk and slapped a bit of the meat on top of it. He took a deep breath, held it, then took a bite. Greasy. Stringy. Gamey. Yeah, he totally believed this was what roast of flying monkey tasted like. He'd eaten worse.

So had Crowley from the way he gulped down his beer and beast. He looked disgusted but what else was new?

They sat side by side, trading stories of bad food they'd eaten and chewing on the tough stuff and it said something that chatting with Crowley was the most interesting thing he'd done in days. His eyes kept straying to the big crystal ball sitting on its perch in the middle of the table in the middle of a room that had very little else to look at. It was very shiny, catching the light and holding it as if it didn't want to let go. Dean sighed.

"You should use it." Crowley licked his lips. 

"If I use it I'll see Sam."

"True." Crowley sounded bored.

"And so will Lucifer."

"You don't know that." 

"Yeah, I do. Not like that one's hard to figure out." He sighed long and loud. "It's a magical object in Lucifer's castle and he left it here, where we could use it. That's a goddamn party line."

Crowley made a rude noise. "You're too young to know what a party line is."

"Okay. So it's a chatroom. Happy now?"

"Oh of course, my life is complete." Crowley squirmed. And frowned. And finally whined. "I need the bucket."

Dean sighed. "Gross. Can't you hold it?"

"I can take a dump on the floor and you can pick it up. How's that?" Crowley trotted over to sit next to a cabinet in the corner of the room. Dean sighed and reluctantly got to his feet. "I have a whole new appreciation of indoor plumbing."

Crowley snorted. "You're spoiled. I had to put up with the damn bucket for a couple hundred years before you monkeys invented real toilets. One of the benefits of being a demon was not having to take a crap. Unless I wanted to, of course."

"Ah, so that's what's up with the dog crap." Dean picked him up and held him out over the bucket. "You've been constipated for centuries."

The stream of urine was rank and loud, rattling into the bucket. Dean wondered if they'd chosen a bucket that was taller than Crowley for just this reason. He wouldn't put it past them. Lucifer, after all.

"You rang?"

Dean jumped and the stream wobbled as Crowley yelped. Good thing he was almost done. Dean dropped him on the stone floor and pointedly ignored Lucifer, walking to the sideboard to rinse his hands. Crowley had dashed back under his chair. Behind him, Dean could hear the sound of coarse fabric moving. When he turned around, it wasn't a surprise to find Lucifer right behind him, smiling that asshole grin of his. "Huh. Speak of the devil."

"Or think of him in your case." Lucifer pasted a theatrically apologetic expression on his face and went on, "I'm sorry I've been such a poor host. I had some chores I couldn't put off."

"Right. Right. So. Sam finally told you to fuck off?" Dean started to circle him.

"Oh he told me that right off the bat." Lucifer circled back. Widdershins, of course. "It's strange, though. I think I'm starting to get what you meat suits call obsessive compulsive behavior."

They walked through another half circle, Lucifer smirking and leaving that straight line lying there until Dean finally had to pick it up. "So what kind of OCD does a shithead fallen angel get? Gotta dance on pins or something?"

"Actually, I think this is a compulsion we share. The dress sense . . ." He flared his skirt and shot an amused look at Dean, "and there are things I feel I must say, or do. You've really managed to trigger an impressively potent curse. It's strong enough to keep me from killing you. Or actually, I do still plan to kill you, but not just yet. Oh, um, yes, and your little dog too? I'd be amused if I weren't forced to endure the company of so many of you creatures."

"Lame." Crowley was still crouched under the chair but he sounded like he was trying to be defiant. "You're supposed to have some real conviction in that."

"Am I?" Lucifer tilted his head and leaned down just a little to peer under the chair. The sight of the tall, lean man in his ratty dress should have been funny. It wasn't. 

Crowley was staring at him, puzzlement and anxiety on his face. And his features suddenly shifted to surprise. "You don't know what's happening here, do you?"

Lucifer curled his lip just a little. "I know that this sterling example of his species was foolish enough to trigger a curse strong enough to entrap at least two major supernatural entities. I know I need those shoes,"

Dean looked down at his shoes as the monster gestured, then back up again. Crowley's face was twisted in exasperation. "Really? Am I the ONLY one who has actually SEEN this movie?"

"Sam has!" Dean held up a finger in a 'wait a moment' gesture. "And I've seen several of the artistic interpretations of it!"

"You've never seen a version that wasn't porn, Winchester. Or maybe you only REMEMBER the porn." Crowley crept out from under his chair to shoot a disdainful look at them both. "But Lucifer hasn't. And he's an angel. All knowing to hear them tell it. Or maybe not."

Lucifer shrugged. "Blame my creator for that. But mostly knowing is good enough if what one knows are the important things. I've never felt an overwhelming need to know the entertainments of this ill-considered species." 

Crowley sighed. Rolled his eyes. "Not good enough to watch so now you get to act it out like a puppet. Genius."

The pale blue eyes of Lucifer's borrowed form narrowed, glared, then shifted to that same disdainful amusement. "It's almost worth it for the chance to see you on all fours, Crowley. And I don't expect this to last that much longer." 

Dean stopped circling, seeing those eyes come back to him with the warm, human crinkle at the corners and the inhumanly deep revulsion and rage lurking just beneath the surface. Dean licked his lips, tried to think of something to snarky to say, something dismissive. Instead, he backed up a step.

Lucifer's smiled softened into silky pleasure. "Just give me the shoes."

"Would if I could," blurted Dean. "They don't come off."

Lucifer took a step, eyes crinkling in even deeper amusement as Dean backed away, trying to keep the distance steady until his back was pressed against the wall. Lucifer made a small moue of false regret. "I really do need you to pay attention, Winchester. I need you to give me those shoes."

"Sure." Dean didn't smile so much as stretch his lips back in a rictus. "Do you know how to do that?"

Lucifer tilted his head and looked him up and down. "I think I do. I exaggerated when I said I'd never seen your movies. Have you heard of a film called Saw?"

Dean nearly wet himself. He shoved away, skittering along the wall. 'NO!"

"I can give you some of those blades they have for runners. You'd probably be faster than you are now." Lucifer's patient smile never wavered. 

"Go to hell! Go BACK to hell!"

The fallen angel sighed with false sorrow. "I'm sure I should still be there. Of course, then you did something that was probably very stupid -"

"-Definitely very stupid," muttered Crowley.

"And triggered this curse. So now it's time to pay the piper. I'm actually offering you a very good deal."

"No! No no no no NO! You are not cutting off my feet."

Lucifer shrugged. "Fine with me. My other choice is to cut off your head."

Dean squeaked and barely stopped himself from reaching up to protect his throat. He'd faced monsters that had terrorized thousands for eons, had slain angels, but Lucifer was in a very different class and he couldn't begin to think of what could hurt, let alone kill, such a thing. 

Lucifer was still walking towards him. Dean was still backing up. Until he was backed into a corner, heart slamming against his ribs, wondering if there was any way to open a hell mouth here and now and knowing that if he did, it wouldn't be Lucifer who'd use it.

But there wasn't a hell mouth. There was nothing but the corner, no way past Lucifer, who leaned so close that Dean could feel that breath on his face. It was warm and smelled sweet, like flowers at dawn, like a hint of corpses rotting. One of Lucifer's hands rested on Dean's chest, holding him pinned. The other reached towards his feet but then the air frizzed with electric menace and the scent of ozone and Lucifer sprang back, snarling. Shaking his fingers like they hurt. 

Dean gasped, sucking in a deep breath and got out of that corner and into the open center of the room, still staring at Lucifer. Wondering at the scent and the reddened skin of Lucifer's hand and wistfully wishing he could plant one of those shoes a foot up that fucking angel's ass but then Lucifer curled his lips back from his teeth and hissed at him. Grabbed behind him and suddenly there was an hourglass in his hand, a huge one that Lucifer shook then slammed down on the table next to the crystal ball. "Your feet or your life, Winchester. You have until the sand runs out." And he was gone in a twist of foul smoke.

Dean stood there gulping in huge lungfuls still tainted with the reek of the smoke.

Crowley walked over to lean against his leg. Dean could feel the small body trembling. He looked down. Crowley looked up. And said, "I think that went well. Don't you?"

Dean blinked and shivered and laughed and if his voice was shrill and if he laughed a little bit too long, well. Crowley didn't seem to care, so why should he?

And when he finally stopped, it was all at once. And the only sound in the cold, stone room was of him gulping in air.

Oh yes, and the soft, soft sound of sand falling from the top of a glass, down, to pile up in a heap. And for a while, that was the loudest sound in that room

\----------------------------

TBC


	13. Rockettes, Girl Groups and Magic TV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Princess, er, Dean is badly in need of rescue (though he says the flying monkey fricasee is pretty good) and Sam, Cas and Death try a new fashion. Crowley, of course, farts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the Supernatural characters belong to precisely who you think they would, and the same for L. Frank Baum's wonderful characters.

Chapter 13

"Stop pacing. You're making me seasick."

Dean didn't stop. He glanced out the window, wheeled on his heel and tracked back to the door, carefully swinging around the table on the way. More to the point, swinging past the hourglass, where the sand had piled up a little more. Perhaps the width of a small knife, he thought, as he turned away and finished the path to the door. Gave it a cursory rattle and then turned and retraced his steps to the table, the hourglass, the door. Crowley's little round head turned, following him, a disgusted look on his face. "One hundred forty-three. Why look, even you must be tired of doing the same thing over and over. Take a break. Have a snack. Watch some magic TV."

He glanced at the magic ball. Frowned. "And just hand Sam over."

"Winchester," Crowley sounded tired. "Think about it. We're in a castle full of magical implements. being held by one of the most powerful entities in existence. If he wants to know where Sam is, then he'll know."

"Shit." Dean stopped, rocked slowly on his heels then turned to look at the ball. Frowned, crossed his arms tight. "Shit."

"Don't let it bother you, Winchester." The demon dog lowered himself to the ground and put his chin on his paws. "I didn't see it either. But you are still an idiot."

Dean snorted, shook his head. "And you're a nasty, smelly little constipated demon with delusions of grandeur."

"Oooh big words!"

"Like 'em? I learned them from Sam." Dean allowed himself a small smile. And finally did reach out and let his hand smooth over the cool, clear surface. Light kindled in its depths and he leaned in to look, almost ignoring the motion of grains and the tiny hissing sound they made. Cloudy gray swirled, and then settled to patterns of dark and light, stone and night sky and stunted trees and unwholesome, twisted shrubs. And a couple of funny looking guys wearing tall hats and ugly coats with high collars. Dean snorted. "What IS it with these people and cross-dressing? Even the witch's guards look like they're wearing chick clothes."

Crowley craned and hopped, trying for altitude, then finally snarled, jumped up onto the bed and squinted, looking across at the ball. "Looks like Cossack uniforms. Once more, your knowledge of the history of your species astounds me."

"Your species too, at least at first." Dean leaned in a little closer, trying to figure out what had caught his attention. A small motion behind the guards. And then a bigger motion as two sets of strong arms snaked around the guards, yanking them out of sight. Dean held his breath and then laughed, sharp and short, as two Cossacks stood up. One had a silvery, tin face and the other had straw sticking out above his collar. He shut his eyes tight, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck. They're going to get themselves killed."

"Pick me up! Pick me up!" Crowley was bouncing. Dean glared at him. "If I do, you'll fart and I'll wind up gassed to death."

"I said you were still an idiot! My life is at stake here too." 

"You're just bored. And whiny.":

"True on both counts. Now pick me up!"

Dean pulled his eyes away from the ball and turned, scooped up the little body, turned back to see that now, the two in dresses were leading, with a third following. Crowley snickered. "I can't believe you got Death to wear that topknot. The next time you get cursed, make sure to find a curse that lets you keep cameras."

"I'll make sure to ask about that the next time I trigger a curse." Dean shifted Crowley to a slightly more comfortable position. "They're supposed to get here safely, aren't they?"

"They will." There was a note in Crowley's voice that was difficult to identify. "It's in the movie and Lucifer will want all of you in one place."

"Why can't he just take the shoes?" Dean wasn't totally interested in the answer. He knew the shoes didn't come off, that much was obvious. 

"Can't take them until you're dead. Though really, the movie never went into death versus amputation." 

"Aren't you just a little bundle of joy," grouched Dean. "So why can't he take them? Really?"

Dogs shrugged with their whole bodies. Dean hadn't known that before. Crowley still sounded a little bored. "Magic. Curse. Movie logic. Take your pick."

"Why didn't he just kill me before?"

"I repeat."

Dean thought about that. "So. He doesn't have to follow the movie exactly. None of us do. But he's got to follow the overall script whether he knows it or not?"

"More or less. You're the focus so you seem to have the most leeway as long as you follow the general plot. And the rest of us, up to a point, can improvise." Crowley wriggled a little. "He had to say some things that were so identified with the character, but not necessarily follow precisely."

"So it's like that tulpa thing. Shaped by belief." In the crystal ball, Sam and Cas had just mugged a third guard and were stripping him while Death prowled, keeping watch. "Belief shapes it and belief gives it power, and the points where belief is strongest are the ones we have to do right, but everything else is more flexible?"

"Not bad," Crowley sounded amused. "That's a good way to describe it. Look, they're all disguised and ready to come to the rescue. Good. The room service here is foul."

"It's not so bad." Dean dropped him to the ground. "I think I could used to eating flying monkey."

The crystal was still showing them to him, a view as if he were looking over their shoulders, watching a column of Lucifer's swishy, high-stepping troops. "Rockettes," murmured Dean and he watched them march past, skirts swishing and silly hats bobbing and sharp, very much not-silly bayonets flashing. Until suddenly his brother and his friend and . . .whatever Death was, were moving, falling into line behind the troops, and Death's tail was swinging back and forth behind him until he grabbed it and tucked it under his arm.

"Fuck," sighed Dean. "We are so dead."

"I've never understood how you idiots survived." Crowley sat back on his ass and kicked up his rear leg to scratch below one ear. "You stumble along, bumping into utterly lethal things and yet you manage to trip them up so they can fall on a deadly weapon just right. It's insane. It's enough to make me believe in guardian angels and I don't mean that trench-coated clueless creature who likes human pets so much. I tell you, Winchester, if you hadn't shanghaied me into your filthy curse, I'd be laughing my evil little head off right now!"

"You really are a nasty little beast, aren't you? How did you ever become king of hell? You don't have the . . .I don't know . . . the big brass balls and style, I guess."

"Hell's a bureaucracy just like any other." Crowley smiled grimly. "I rose to my level of incompetence. That just happened to be top of the shit-pile."

"I'm almost sorry I whacked the yellow eyed bastard. He had a hell of a lot more class than you." Dean shot him a sweet smile, just to add that perfect touch of 'fuck you' and turned back to watch as the three stooges marched under the portcullis and into the courtyard, where they peeled away from the main group and were now checking doors along a corridor, murkily lit by torches in sconces. 

"Oh, yes, sorry, you're the masterful terror, demon killer, angel slayer. You're a regular vampire slayer. I almost expect to see you pull a wooden stake out of those stylish panties." Crowley was listening at the door but glancing back and Dean knew he was hoping for a reaction. He stuck out his tongue and turned back to the crystal ball.

Sam was leading Cas and Death up a staircase that followed a rounded wall, like a tower. He glanced at the curved outside wall of his cell and shivered. "Maybe I can cut a deal, get him to let Sam and Cas live."

"What about Death and me?" Crowley sounded offended. Dean glanced up.

"Death'll be fine. You can't kill something like him."

Crowley raised a brow, farted. 

"And you're the king of hell. If you managed to worm your way into that job, I figure you'll manage." Dean grinned toothily, then turned back to see Sam and Cas sneak up on a flying monkey that was lighting torches. Death, behind them, waved his hand and the little beast dropped to the floor. 

"So what kind of deal do you think you'd offer him, Buffy?" Crowley didn't actually sound interested, but he was looking at Dean when the hunter looked around at the door again.

"Maybe he wants a dog?"

"Cute."

"A blow job maybe? That worked in the movie."

"The one with the ruby codpiece?" Crowley actually sounded vaguely revolted. Dean looked up to see him shaking his head like he was trying to get his brain to fall out. He stopped and looked at Dean. "In the first place, EW! In the second, I don't believe the fallen angel of light, The First Created, is interested in bestiality."

"Low blow."

"And finally, PORN VERSION!"

Dean grinned. "Yeah. I know."

"I think -" Dean never did learn what Crowley thought, because there was a pounding at the door and a low voice hissing, "Dean! DEAN!"

"Sam! You're an idiot! Get me out of here!" Dean didn't even notice racing across the room. One instant he was at the table, and the next standing there, hands pressed to the worn, old wood of the heavy door. 

"Working on it." There was a grunt and a clatter. The door trembled, then swung open and suddenly Sam was there, and long arms were wrapped around Dean and the bonelessness and the scratchy straw were wrong, but the relief and love in that tight grip mattered much, much more. Dean tightened his own grasp around the body, pretending that he felt ribs, not knowing if he'd ever actually feel Sam real and solid again and that as long as it was Sam himself, the body didn't matter. 

He pounded gently as his brother's back. "Sam, you are a fucking idiot."

"Missed you too, jackass." Sam gave him a final squeeze that made the breath whoosh out of his lungs and then let go, stepping back. A broad smile on his face, folding the burlap skin at the corners of his mouth. "Let's get you out of here."

"Sure, but we're on the clock. Witch's broomstick, remember? We did have an assignment here." 

"We'll worry about that later."

"Yeah." Dean forced his smile to stay unchanged. "Of course."

"Are you done with your sentimental rituals?" Death sounded bored, glancing back from where he kept watch at the door. "Or shall we just stay and wait for discovery to liven things up?'

"Yeah, yeah, glad to see you too." Dean brushed past him, into the hall. Crowley was already out there, watching up and down the hall. "You hear anything, demon dog king?"

"Cute. Mainly I hear you trading sentimental feelings. Oh, and you still owe a hug to Castiel. Wouldn't do to neglect one of your girl group."

"No need, I'm happy to have found Dean safe and sound." Castiel's sincerity rang in his voice, louder than his muffled footsteps on the flag stones. 

Dean glanced down at tin feet wrapped in rags and grinned. "Good to see you, Cas."

"Likewise, Dean." 

Death and Crowley both made a disgusted noise and started in opposite directions, turned back to meet each others' eyes, rolled their eyes, and Crowley turned and trotted in the direction Death was going. "I suppose you do know where the marked exits are."

Dean watched them go, turned to glance at Sam, who nodded, and then followed them, staying on his toes to try to keep the heels of the shoes from clattering on the stone. They reached the stairs, made it down one floor, and for a moment it actually seemed they'd be okay. And of course, that's when it all went to hell.

 

TBC


	14. Slippy slippers, hats and spears, these are the sum of some of our fears . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short one for you while I get used to the new computer. Long may the old one rest in piece, its hard drive will be missed. And, oh yes, no harm, no foul, Kripke, MGM, you know the drill.

=================  
Chapter 14

The guards didn't see them at first. All those men in tall, silly hats boiling in through doorways, one floor down. The escapees froze, watching. They slowly, silently started to back up the stairs, hoping that the guards wouldn't look up, wouldn't see them. It wasn't a very big hope, but it was still disappointing when the rotten rockettes looked up. More so when they shouted and came pelting up the stairs. Disappointing, but really not surprising and there was no hesitation when the five of them turned and raced up the stairs ahead of the crowd, three pairs of quiet feet, one set of paws, and the clanking of Castiel's tin feet.

A cross hall opened up and they raced down it. Dean didn't bother trying to be quiet anymore. Castiel's metal feet clanged, but Sam and Death were silent and fast. Crowley was falling behind. Dean bent at the waist, still running, to scoop the wretched beast up and clutch him close, keeping his mass tight and balanced as they cut around a corner but there were torches bobbing ahead of them, bayonets glinting. They wheeled and reversed, running along a parapet that ringed the castle. 

The soldiers in dresses were howling, rattling their spears. The torches cast weird shadows of tall hats on the castle walls. Dean's heel caught on an uneven paver and his ankle twisted, sending him stumbling. Crowley yelped, then Sam hauled him upright and pelting towards the next corner. It was a trap. He knew it, years of hunting told him but stopping was surrendering. Death, racing ahead of him, should have looked hilarious with his tail whipping back and forth but he didn't feel like laughing. Another corner was ahead of him, Death pelting first, then Dean and Sam and Castiel clattering along behind them except that Death turned the corner and stopped. Dean saw him turn the corner, but then the tip of that silly tail came back into sight, and then the tail, and then Death was backing up and Dean was skidding to a stop, shoes sliding on the slick stone of the walkway. Sam's hand was under his arm, steadying him when Cas ran into him and sent him staggering a few more steps and then he could see it around the corner too, the torches glittering off spear tips, the tall shadows of those hats. Death was backing up, and Dean was too. All of them, really, into a corner that could only be a trap but was also the only place to get a wall at their backs. A quick glance over the side showed high walls dropping to a moat whose water looked filthy, greasy and terrible far below. A glance up showed sheer walls straight up, punctuated, by narrow windows and the curved shapes of towers. Either way was hopeless. Dean glanced at Sam, saw his brother scoping the territory and reaching the same conclusion he had. Sam met his eyes, shrugged, then spun to take one of the entrances to the guard station. Dean took the other entrance, aware of Castiel and Death moving into the center of the station behind them. Crowley was in the corner where he'd run when Dean dropped him. It was a tiny stone hut of a building, perched where the parapet along the walls met. A tiny hut of a building with doors only wide enough for two soldiers marching abreast. 

It would have to be good enough.

Dean shifted his weight, turning his body to present a smaller target, and balanced his weight, watching. 

The first one came at him with a bayonet. Too easy. He swept an arm to shift the point enough, and a kicked to the inside of the knee to cripple and turn the soldier into a barrier as he swept the gun away and turned it into a club with a point, spinning to catch the next bayonet and force it down, and then bringing the butt up under a chin so hard the impact jarred his bones and the soldier's neck cracked. The next one over the wall, and Dean registered the thick splash and the scream and something inhuman bellowed but he wasn't the only one who heard that ghastly noise. The other soldiers had paused, were backing off a little, watching him now. Their eyes skittered to the side every so often, to where their friend had gone over the wall. Dean smiled at them, wide and hard and bright. Two of them tried to come in as a split target but that was easy too foul one for a shield, take the second then the first. Behind him, more faintly, he heard more splashes and screams and screeches and knew that Sam was doing just as well. 

It wouldn't be enough. 

He knew that. It was obvious. There were just too many soldiers, dozens of them, and only some slight sense of self-preservation had kept them from overwhelming him already, but he'd take what he could get. 

Or maybe not. The guards suddenly milled in confusion, and the sound they made shifted from a howl to something else then they backed away from him, pushing back to leave an open space. Dean braced, bayonet held ready, but none of them rushed him.

Instead, smoke boiled up from the flagstones, strange sparks lighting the dark column from within, and then Lucifer stood there in his black, ragged dress and his black, buckled shoes and his black, pointed hat and the sad, glacially cold smile that held no hint of mercy. 

"Dean. You have been a busy boy."

And behind him, Dean heard Sam's battle go silent. Heard the tiny noise of his people moving up behind him. He glanced at the parapet that only led to that moat and its noises. And at the sheer walls that offered no handhold. And back to Lucifer. He spun the rifle and its bayonet in a showy circle and smiled. "Let's dance."

Lucifer let out a noisy, long-suffering sigh. "I do get tired of the jokes about angels and dancing. Instead of dancing, why don't you just come here and we'll get this done."

Dean swallowed against an icy lump in his throat. Distantly, he heard a snuffling behind him and then Crowley was there, tugging at the hem of his dress. He batted at the demon dog with one hand. "Go away! I'm busy."

"Idiot!" His voice was muffled by fabric he gripped in his mouth.

"Crowley, got a situation here!"

"No, no," Lucifer said, waving a magnanimous hand. "Take a moment. Scratch his ears, hug Sam. I've got time."

"Uh . . thanks." Dean gave him a clenched smile. Edged back into the shadows and turned to Crowley. "Crap! You asshole! It's bad enough that he's gonna murder me and fuck with my wardrobe but at least I was gonna go out with style."

"I'd rather have the hug." Sam's voice sounded tight, too controlled.

"You gingham clad moron!" Crowley was squirming with frustration. "Just throw the bucket!"

"Bucket?" Dean stared at him.

"Bucket!" Crowley ran into the corner and ran a circle around a tall, metal bucket. "Throw it!"

"And piss him off so he can cut off my feet and THEN kill me. And Sam. And he won't even kill you first."

"Winchester, the movie! The REAL movie, not the porn! THROW IT!"

Dean glanced over his shoulder. Cas clanked forward and raised a hand. "He's right. But maybe I can give you more of an edge." He reached out and started chanting, Enochian syllables harsh in the shadows.

Death sighed and shoved Cas to the side. "If we're going to gamble on this, let's use some real power." He raised one paw and swept it through a series of gestures, made a gutteral sound and then smiled. "There. That should help."

"Help what?" Dean stared at them, looking for the gleam of insanity he was sure would be in their eyes. 

Sam gave him a crazy smile and nodded. "Dean, quit being a dick and throw the damn thing?"

"Really?"

Lucifer called in a sing-song voice, "Wait-ting! How long will this take?"

Dean looked at Sam. Nodded at the bucket. "I'll go first. You behind me. Make a splash." 

He didn't wait for acknowledgment but turned, and stepped into the light of the torches that hung on the wall outside the station. Paused and took a deep breath that was chill and foul all the way to the bottoms of his lungs. Lucifer reached out and beckoned. Behind him, a soft crinkle of straw and shuffle of fabric came.

Dean stepped forward, knowing that Lucifer's eyes were on him, and on his feet. One of Sam's hands was on his shoulder, squeezing gently. A sudden rattle of tin and Castiel stood at his other side, and his hand too, was at Dean's back. Behind Dean's back. Holding something with Sam, that bumped against Dean's legs but that didn't pull them off balance now that the weight was shared. 

And together, they took another step. Lucifer looked at the three of them and his smile was like an indulgent parent giving in to a child, while his eyes were hungry and dark. His hand beckoned again. "You three are very cute, arm in arm like that. Come on. I promise it won't hurt. Much."

Sam made a gagging noise to his right. A faint clank on the left was Castiel's jack shifting and clenching. Dean sneered. "You really are an asshole."

Lucifer aped sadness, brows pinched and mouth pursed. "You wound me, Dean. Really. Especially since this isn't my fault."

Another step. "Not seeing it, Lucy. From where I stand you're the guy who's gonna gank me and you're the guy getting off on the games." He tried to keep his voice light, but it cracked and rasped as he spoke.

A shrug and a sorrowful expression. "I'm not the one who triggered a curse and I didn't choose to trap myself here. Though I admit, seeing your version of Crowley is almost worth putting up this absurdity." 

"So it's blame the victim?" Dean felt a little fire kindle in his gut. Snapped out the words. Beside him, Sam nodded sharply.

"If the sparkly red shoe fits, Dean." 

"I'd like to fit my sparkly red shoe right where the sun don't shine you nasty fucker." 

 

And they were close now. Close enough to see the way the light caught in Lucifer's eyes, and the way his smile was just a little too wide. Close enough to see the faint peeling of his skin, like it had been when they'd first seen him.

Sam groaned. "You really don't have to antagonize every monster you meet, Dean."

"It is somewhat unwise, tactically," sighed Castiel.

"Oh boys, leave him alone. If he wants to call me names, I'm big enough to take it." Lucifer gave them a cheery smile. 

Dean could feel Sam and Castiel, his brother and his brother in arms, shift the slightest bit. He knew what was coming next. Sam's voice held grim satisfaction and hope. "Then take it, you bastard!" The hand on Dean's shoulder pressed down hard and Dean went with the cue, crouching as Cas and Sam moved, flinging the bucket between them.

The water was catching torchlight, sparkling, to drench over the tall hat the black dress and the shoes and drip down Lucifer's annoyed face. The fallen angel looked down at himself, and the puddle around his feet, the dripping water from his hem. Looked up at them in annoyance. "Was that really necessary?"

Sam and Cas stepped to the sides, leaving Dean room to stand. The click of claws announced Crowley, and who ever knew when to expect Death but as he stood there, he knew his people had his back. In front of him, Lucifer frowned more deeply and asked in disbelieving tone, "Water? Really?"

"Holy water, Lucifer." Said Castiel.

 

TBC.


	15. Holy water, Hijinks and Hooch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucifer learns that smoking is bad for you, and the boys party down.

Chapter 15

The fallen angel stood very still, looking down at himself. Slowly, he pinched the front of his dress between finger and thumb and lifted it. It made a squelch as it pulled away from his skin, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. 

Then Lucifer looked up at him, and Dean was holding his breath. He couldn't help it.

It was hard to tell at first, in the dark with the black dress and the torchlight, but there might have been smoke.

"I'm the first of the hosts, Dean. What makes you think this will work?"

Death stepped up beside him. Smiled. All the guardsmen backed up. "Because I am tired of this curse and its games. And that water was blessed by me."

There really was smoke. He could see it curling up from the dress, from Lucifer's fingertips. Wreathing his face. Lucifer's frown deepened. "Damn."

"Say it! Say it!" Crowley's voice was harsh. 

Lucifer heaved another of those infinite sighs. "All right. Fair enough."

They all stood waiting, and Dean was sure he wasn't the only one holding his breath.

Lucifer stretched out his arms, waved his broomstick and intoned in a bored, flat voice, "Oh, oh, I'm melting. I'm melting," as his body lost definition and slowly started to sink towards the flagstones. When he only remained from the waist up, he shifted and pointed at Dean and his voice sharpened and hardened, his smile going vicious and pointed and cruel, "But drag me into a curse again, little hunter, and I'll destroy you! And your little DOG too!"

Then he cackled, laughter rising horrible and shrill into the air as his body melted into the stones until nothing was left but the reek of overcooked barbecue and smoke, and the echo of his voice. 

The smoke curled up from a dark puddle on the stone parapet, blacker than the soot of the torches. Faint echoes of that raucous, angry laugh still rang, putting shivers up Dean's back. At his side, Cas shifted, his tin joints creaking softly in the dank air. He turned to look at Sam, who still held the bucket in both hands. All around them, those Cossack guards in their funky dresses and go-go boots and hats just stood motionless, staring at them and then at pool of oily black stuff that did not reflect back the torches. It was so quiet they could hear the monsters in the moat doing things that they definitely did not want to think about.

Then one of the soldiers, one whose hat was a little taller, who had a little more bling on his dress, walked up to look at the pool. He looked up at Dean, then back at the pool and suddenly leaned down and hawked and spat and when he stood he threw his rifle up in the air and caught it like a baton twirler, and he screamed out, "The witch is dead!"

The words echoed louder than Lucifer's last cackle. The soldier held out his arms, threw back his head and even louder, howled, "THE WITCH IS DEAD!"

And then all of them, every last guy in a dress, they were all slamming the butts of those big, ugly rifles on the stones and laughing and shouting, "DING DONG DING DONG THE WICKED WITCH IS DEAD!"

Their leader suddenly spun and raced across the walkway and Dean had his hands up, ready to block and fight when the guy grabbed him by both arms and pulled him into a big wet kiss on the lips and honestly, Dean thought he might have preferred to fight. Especially since the officer had eaten what smelled like garlic sausage for lunch, but then he was kissing Dean on the left cheek and the right and his whiskers and beard tickled and his body odor should have been licensed to kill and he was laughing and so were his men. When he let go, it was to suddenly spin around, dancing, hands in the air and feet kicking high and spinning in a wild circle. 

Dean slowly wiped his mouth, and his cheeks, staring as the soldiers around them broke ranks and some shot their rifles into the air and others were dropping into this weird dance where they crouched and kicked out their feet and, yeah, that did NOT look like the hokey pokey, and others were hugging and sobbing and one or another of the bastards was cheering and yelling about the witch being dead, ding dong and all that crap, happy times and it was so fucking weird that Sam and Dean and Cas just stood there and watched it until one of them raced up and handed them each a bottle of something cloudy that smelled like it was going to burn their nose hairs. It sure as hell lit a fire in Dean's belly. He took another swig and turned to see that Sam had staggered off and was . . .what was that? Christ on a skateboard, it sure as hell looked like the limbo. The cossacks were shouting and it sounded like Boris and Natasha yelling "How LOW can you GO!" Yep. Scarecrow Sam had a backbend that just didn't quit and Dean hadn't known you could crawl facing upwards like that, using your shoulders and heels and, maybe, hair follicles.

He took another swig and Dean was an experienced and talented drinker but this stuff made things look really fuzzy and made him want to giggle and that had to be why he went along when the big officer in a dress grabbed his hands and pulled him out on the dance floor and twirled him around like a princess and okay, this SUCKED. But Sam was giving a whole new meaning to the twist, and one of these guys was even doing a really courtly waltz with Cas though no one was stupid enough to try it with Death, and once he thought he saw another of the cossacks sitting by the stone walls drinking from a beer stein and sharing it with Crowley, and then he was being whipped around again. And sure, he could have stopped, but there were a fuckload of these bastards and they were all armed and it was a hell of a lot better to have them happy and dancing than pissed off cause they were out of a job, so who was he to argue?

Those little red sparkly shoes on his hurt his feet like a son of a bitch but after a while, but his feet sort of went numb and his legs felt a long way down from his head and his stomach was a bonfire in the middle (and that was just gonna be all KINDS of fun when it didn't want to be in his middle anymore!) and he knew it was late but the dancing fools just didn't quit so neither did he. Not until some time late, late in the night when his head felt like it wanted to fly away and his feet wanted to run away. And some time when the stars were brighter than the torches, Dean found himself slumped against a stone wall. Sam was slumped next to him, laughing. A real laugh, too, not a cackle or a snicker or anything other than a big, deep belly laugh that felt so good that Dean laughed with him until he had to wipe tears off his face and his gut hurt with it. They were finally almost quiet, sometimes giggling, sometimes just gasping for air against the chuckles left behind and it was clean, and good, and whole and there was no smell of blood, no cuts, no pain beyond sore feet and no . . . just nothing. Not hunting, not fear, not even much relief, just family on a night that wasn't all that cold, in a place that wasn't that dangerous anymore, and for a little while he could let go and just be there with his brother, laughing. 

The laughter, finally, was what he heard as he drifted into sleep.

And when dawn came he really wished he could just stay asleep until his feet stopped trying to defect from his body and his body stopped trying to get away from his head and the taste of that rotgut they were drinking was in his mouth like wet fur, and the headache from that rotgut slamming in his head. It was enough to make him wonder if he wouldn't have been better off being gut shot and thrown in the moat. 

"Oh my god," groaned Sam in a wavering, agonized voice. "If I ever had a brain, it's dead now. How can straw hurt this much?"

"How can you talk that much?" Dean cracked his eyes open and shut them fast when the light sent spikes through his head. "Getting killed might have hurt less."

A cold, wet nose shoved into his ears and warm, wet, smelly breath panted onto the side of his face. "Wakey wakey, Hunters. Death says he's tired of having a tail and he expects you to get off your asses and do something about it or he'll cure that hangover. Permanently."

"Crap!" Dean cringed away from that dog breath. Oh god, supernatural dog breath. Supernatural dog breath from a dog that had been drinking that bottled demon piss the Cossacks called booze. He squinted against the fumes of Crowley's breath and rolled to his hands and knees. "Oh shit, Crowley. What have you been EATING?"

The demon dog let his tongue loll out, pink and spotted with black, panting. Dean was pretty sure he was doing it to amuse himself because it was making Dean gag. He choked briefly but managed to get up without passing out or puking. Win for him: Winchester one, rotgut . . . Well. The rotgut probably won the match but still. He was on his feet and away from Crowley's demon-crap breath, and oh, oh, there was actually a smell of coffee in the air. 

Sam was still sprawled on the stone walkway that ran around the castle and so were about two dozen smelly, snoring guardsmen. Crowley was idly pissing on one. Dean wondered if it could make him stink any worse. He leaned over Sam and flicked at his ear. Paused as he saw straw sticking out of one ear. Swallowed, swallowed again then lunged to puke over the parapet. Yeah, that booze tasted almost as nasty coming back up as it had going down. He wiped his mouth and looked up to find Sam leaning against the wall beside him, burlap skin greenish. 

"Your turn?"

"Scarecrows don't hurl." Sam sighed. "Our straw just gets soggy." 

Dean stared at him. "How does that work? Do you just wait to . . . you know . . .dry out? Do you mildew?"

Sam scratched idly in the ages-old ritual of men in the morning and shrugged. "Beats me. I figure it's magic, just like straw having a hangover."

Dean watched him, had a thought and winced. "Uh, you really are totally straw, huh? So what itches?" He scratched his own balls in sympathy.

Sam sighed wistfully. "It's straw but it still feels like I've got balls."

"Oh hell, like . . phantom ball syndrome or something?"

Sam stared at him. Bit his lips and snickered hard down his nose. "Phantom nuts? Yeah, pretty much."

"Man, that totally sucks. Can you, y'know, spank the monkey?"

A raised eyebrow and exasperated expression met that. "Have you SEEN me polishing my surfboard man?"

"Nooo but . . ." Dean trailed off, thought about it and winced again. "That totally blows!"

"Tell me about it."

"About what?" Castiel must have gotten some oil because they hadn't heard him walk up. 

Dean spun and briefly wondered if his head was going to just keep going but he was distracted as he really saw the angel. Or, more importantly, what he carried. "Oh, oh yeah! I think I believe in guardian angels, Cas!"

Castiel gave him a mildly offended look. "The entities which fulfill that duty are much lesser beings, Dean. They are not able to inhabit a host and, at most, they offer suggestions. They would not be able to transport physical objects such as cups of coffee."

Dean stared at him. So did Sam and Crowley, who finally sighed and said, "And this is why Heaven is not winning the war. Takes notes, boys, there will be a test."

Castiel turned that mild frown on Crowley. "It would not be right to confuse a greater and lesser spirit, Crowley. The taxonomy of spirits can tell us much."

Crowley smiled and farted. Dean shook his head, then wrapped his hands around his coffee, drawing in the scent. Sam was clutching his coffee too. Dean sipped, but he was watching Sam who inhaled, then gulped his drink down. The smell of coffee-soaked straw hung in the air and he waited. Waited. Took a sip of coffee. Waited again. Sam smiled happily and put his cup on the parapet, and belched. Loudly. 

Dean jumped. "Jesus, Sam, how do you DO that?"

"What?" He burped again. "That? You taught me."

"This sound occurs when a mortal inhales while consuming food or beverages, Dean. I thought that was well known." Castiel gave a sunny smile. "And when we wear mortal form, angels can also generate eructations. I, myself, have belched the 'Hallalujah Chorus' once."

Dean stared at him, back to Sam, then Cas, then Sam. "Y'know, I was gonna ask about how straw burps and long it stays wet, but after hearing about angelic freak burping concerts, I think maybe I just need to accept that some things are over my pay grade." He gave his head a quick little shake, then gulped the rest of his coffee. 

It was a good thing he finished it because there was a sudden sound, a fraction of a second's warning before he smelled the fart. The nuclear supernatural demon dog fart. And looked down to meet Crowley's leer. "Was that really necessary?"

"I don't know sweet-cheeks. Have you girls finished braiding your hair and doing your nails?"

Dean considered kicking him and decided it wasn't really worth the effort. "Gee, Crowley, I dunno. Have you finished licking your asshole yet?"

"Is that where he gets that breath?" Sam arched an eyebrow.

Crowley rolled over on his back and waggled his not-so-long schlong in the air. "You're just jealous because I can lick my balls."

"Oh, yeah, that's been a lifelong ambition of mine," drawled Dean. "Turn into a foul breathed demon dog just so I can lick my nuts."

"At least I HAVE nuts, unlike some of you." Crowley writhed obscenely. "And I don't have to wear sparkly red shoes like a drag queen."

Castiel looked confused. "I thought drag queens preferred higher heels than that. And less modest outfits."

Crowley stopped squirming and rolled over, expression thoughtful. "You've got a point, featherbrain. I suppose if he'd been choosing the heels himself, they'd be Jimmy Choo stilettos with four inch heels. A size queen like that wouldn't go for the kitten heels."

"Gee. Thanks." Dean rolled his eyes. "Any chance you saw that Cossack officer while you were blowing yourself, Crowley?"

The demon dog smiled brightly. "Sure."

Dean took a deep breath, counted down from ten, and asked, "Wheeeeere?"

"If you wanted to know you should have asked."

"I'm asking now and if you jerk me around again I'll throw you over the moat just to see what those monsters are."

"While I approve of envy and spite as a general principle, Winchester, it doesn't go with your current sweet young thing fashion statement."

"As usual, fuck-you-Crowley."

The demon dog rolled over and waggled his genitals at them. "The only thing you can do with temptation is give in to it, boys."

Dean gagged, "Oh god, we really need to get out of here and get THAT back on two legs and in hell where it belongs."

"Tell us something we don't know." Sam pulled a piece of straw out of his ear and tossed it over the parapet.

"I would also prefer to be organic again," sighed Cas. "And it would be pleasant not to have to endure Crowley's company."

"Ohhh," Dean could only moan with pleasure at the idea. He shut his eye briefly, thinking of his baby or, hell, even that Prius, and wide open high plains roads and a total, absolute, complete, delicious lack of Crowley. He opened his eyes. "Right. One Cossack coming up."

"I don't think he's into drag queens, Winchester!"

Crowley's words rang in his ears and sent him marching into that castle just as fast as his little, sparkly ruby shoe shod feet could go.

TBC


	16. Cossacks, Air Oz, and True Beliebers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mayhem continues. As ever, Oz belongs to the estate of Frank L. Baum and the movie to MGM (pretty sure I got that right) and Supernatural belongs to Kipke, et al.

chapter 16

 

Castles were big. Really big. And their floors were stone that definitely made sparkly ruby shoe shod feet hurt like a son of a bitch. So he was really glad to sling his ass into a chair, ruffly panties and all, when he finally found the Cossack. "Morning Ivan."

Sergei." The big guy smiled toothily. Without his hat, he still looked silly. And a lot less tall. His curly hair was oily and he had a really evil case of hat hair going on. His teeth were sort of yellow. And big. "But for killer of wicked witch, you can call me Ivan! You can call me whatever!"

Dean smiled back. Sort of. "Look, there is something you can do for me -"

He broke off as Sergei threw himself to his knees and took Dean's hands. "Whatever you wish, saviour of the proletariat and slayer of the evil oppressor witch!"

"Uh . . . yeah." Dean extracted his hands from Sergei's slightly sticky grip. "So. What I really want is the witch's broomstick."

"Truly? Only this?" Sergei threw his arms out and started singing about dead witches and his dong, and Dean really regretted the hangover he'd earned the night before. Sergei finally stopped serenading him, clasping his hands in front of his chest. "Oh vanquisher of the Witch, Sergei and all the Warriors of the West are at your command. At least until you exploit the honest workers and force us to go out on strike and bring you to your vile oppressive management knees."

"Uh . . .yeah," Dean said again, wondering if maybe he should have sent Sam to deal with the nutcase. "Really. I just want the broomstick. And a ride back to Oz but hey, we can walk. Walking's good."

"Pshaw!" Sergei actually said that. Dean could damn well hear that puh-shaw sound. He didn't know anyone actually said shit like that. Sergei was still talking. "You have coffee, have breakfast oh hero of the people! We will bring you broomstick and I make arrangements to fly you to the city of the capitalist pigs and their lackeys."

The big hands were back on Dean's knees and he briefly considered the most effective moves to disable the Cossack before deciding that he could take a little groping if it got him the broomstick and an easy trip back to Oz. It was still a relief when Sergei took his hands off Dean's knees, jumped up to his feet, arms out like a stage magician, and then disappeared down a hallway with two of his men. Dean blinked, shook his head, then turned and poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a couple strips of crunchy bacon and a piece of buttery toast. 

His stomach was full and Sam had joined him, sipping another cup of coffee before Sergei returned, waving the singed, scrawny remains of a broomstick. Dean smiled. Reached out to take the thing, twitched at the electric tingling that ran through his hand as he touched it. Sergei leaned down to grab him in a big bear hug and kissed both his cheeks and then his lips. "Thanks, Sergei. That's . . that's really nice of you." 

"You are hero of the proletariat! We carry you to Oz on the wings of the workers!"

And that was when he heard a squeal of outrage from Crowley. Not that he minded when a flying monkey swooped in, Crowley dangling at arm's length, feet pawing the air. Dean grinned, gave a thumb's up to the monkey and stood, broomstick in hand. Turned his smile on Sergei. "I take it that's our ride?"

Sergei gave a sweeping wave and more monkeys flew in on batwings, settling on the backs of their chairs, the tops of the tables, and up the bannisters of the stairs. Sam made a little choking sound then grinned. "I'll go get Cas and Death."

Dean clutched his broomstick to his chest, thinking of the Impala and the smell of vinyl on a hot summer day being just that little bit closer. And he smiled. "Tell 'em we've got the flight booked, no carry on luggage allowed."

Sam chuckled. "Airplanes no, flying monkeys yes?"

"What can I say, Sam?" He waved at a bat-winged monkey in its gaudy little suit. "I like to fly in style!"

 

===============

"So, you gonna be joining the frequent flier plan?"

Sam sounded entirely too cheerful. Dean was going to hurt him. Badly. 

"Too bad the monkeys don't carry air sickness bags, huh?"

Oh yeah, he was going to annihilate Sam. Soon. Really soon.

"Gotta say Winchester, the in flight entertainment was a riot. Between your fluttery ruffles and your puking I thought I was going to laugh myself sick. Though not as sick as you."

Yeah, and he was going to hurt Crowley too. As soon as could stop puking enough to get off his hands and knees.

"At times like this, I consider how much more peaceful my existence would be if I snuffed out your entire species. Or at least if I killed you."

Dean made a sound that even he thought was revolting and spat on the muddy ground where he knelt. "Crap. Go ahead. Please. I'm begging you."

Sam made a muffled giggling sound that made Dean hate him just a little. Crowley didn't bother to muffle his laughter and Dean hated him even more than usual. The demon dog trotted over to sit just out of easy reach. "Cheer up, Winchester. You've got a bit of a layover while the monkeys take a nap and shag each other. You can hit the head, go shopping, get some lunch."

Dean gagged again at the thought of food and Crowley grinned. Sam gave the dog a half-hearted kick. "Stop that. If you keep making him puke, we'll be here all night."

"He's correct, Dean. The monkeys did say they preferred not to carry vomiting passengers." Castiel sounded sympathetic but he always sounded sympathetic. And confused. 

Crowley, on the other hand . . ."Get up Winchester."

"Fug you," Dean spat again, gagging a little at the taste.

"No. Seriously. Get up." A tinge of discomfort colored the arrogant, English voice. "I'm feeling my inner dog and if you keep kneeling there like that I'm going to have to sniff your ruffly butt and even for me that's revolting."

"Ack." He had to agree. And he scrambled up to his feet, appreciating it when Sam's gloved hand helped pull him upright and steady him. 

"Come on, Dean. You don't want to give him any more of a thrill than he already got." Dean shot him a narrow glare, then looked away to pretend to study the peaceful field around them, with its little stream and its graceful trees.

Sam held out a water skin, shook it at him. Dean sighed and took the thing. It was nasty and grubby, like most of the things they'd been given by the Cossacks, but the water tasted a hell of lot better than his mouth did at the moment. He gulped it down gratefully then glared at Crowley. "Don't think I didn't see you looking up my skirt."

"Not like there was much else to look at. Your butt was my in flight entertainment." Crowley's leer suggested he hadn't minded all that much. "Besides, with you screaming like a little girl, it's not like I was going to get much sleep."

"Oh, yeah, like being hauled around by flying monkeys is restful!"

"I found it restful, Dean." 

Dean glared at Castiel. "Yeah, I figured that out when you started singing 'Free Bird.'"

The angel was buffing monkey hand prints off his wrists and ankles. "It was more melodious than your screams, Dean."

Sam gave him a look that was clearly aiming for trying to be apologetic. "You did scream like a girl, Dean. You really need to do something about that fear of flying."

"Clowns, Sam." Dean smiled evilly. "Clowns in your bed. Every morning."

Sam shuddered. "Clowns are creepy. Millions of people know that. Flying, on the other hand, is the safest means of travel."

"Until you crash." Dean rolled his eyes.

"There has never been a monkey-flight related death," said Death. "I assure you, as means of travel go, flying monkey is the safest known method of transit."

And right on cue, one of the little fuckers, in his red vest and hat landed, and gave a thumb's up. Dean took an involuntary step back and the little ape gave a close-mouthed ape smile and, honest to god, a totally undeserved fucking little ape snicker. Dean bared his teeth. "You suck."

The monkey flapped its wings and made a squealing sound. 

"He says you scream like a girl," translated Crowley.

"Your voice did have a somewhat shrill quality," said Castiel.

"It reminded me of the noise at a Justin Bieber concert," said Sam. Everyone turned to stare and he gave them an offended look. "What? I was hunting a teenage skinwalker!"

"Keep telling yourself that, you big girl." Dean snickered. "Is that when you started growing your hair?"

"You're stalling." Death's voice dropped among them like dirt on a coffin lid.

"No I'm not!" Dean pointedly ignored the way everyone else scoffed and lifted his chin. "I"m just . . . just letting the monkeys rest."

The other ten monkeys had been hanging out in the trees by the stream. The filthy little monsters chattered amongst themselves, then all turned to look at him and screeched with what could only be laughter. Dean crossed his arms and schooled his features to bland tolerance. And then winced as Sam dropped an arm around his shoulders and said, "so, you're ready to go? Just two more hops!"

The monkeys all squealed together. It was a sound suspiciously like a crowd of teenage girls. 

Dean put his face in his hands.

 

TBC


	17. Apres monkey motels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys end up where they always do after a journey.

Chapter 17

The squawk of flying monkeys was fading in the distance and Dean Winchester sighed happily. His ruby-shod size twelves were on terra-fuckin'-firma and, best of all, he was looking at a piece of home in the middle of all the weird Oz shit.

He sighed again. "Holy crap. Some things really are universal."

"I don't understand." Sam sounded utterly baffled. "I see it. It's here. But . . .why?"

Castiel intoned, "It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a man who has completed a red eye flying monkey flight is in need of a motel."

"Dork," said Dean and Crowley together. Dean looked down at the dog body with its balding, deceptively human face and shook his head. "You know, I could actually like you if you stayed like this."

The demon dog farted loudly. "Shut up, Winchester, and go get us rooms."

Dean smiled, genuinely happy, and headed for the office. There was no missing it. It was squatting under a hideous neon sign that showed a bad representation of a green gem and letters that would have spelled out Emerald City Motel if half the letters hadn't burned out. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, savoring the rich scents of stale coffee, filthy industrial carpet, and old cigarette butts. There was a tall counter topped with stained formica. Behind it, an ugly, gnomish man looked up, skin sallow in the light of a fluorescent bulb.In his whole time in Oz, Dean had not seen a single fluorescent bulb. Hell, the only lighting he'd seen so far had been torches and candles and magic! But there it was, in the ceiling, buzzing and flickering in the finest tradition of cheap fluorescents in motels the world over. His world over. 

The gnome was chewing something, and he leaned over and spat in a trash can before grudgingly snarling, "What can I do for ya?"

Dean smiled wider still and completed the ritual greeting. "What do you think, genius? I need a room."

The gnome narrowed his eyes, looked at Dean, then out the window at the bedraggled group huddled on the pavement in the nocturnal gloom. The Emerald City never really got dark, it always crouched under a sickly pallor of reflected greenish city-glare. The gnome's yellowed eyes took them in and came back to study Dean. "One room, huh sweet cheeks?"

"Two'd be better. You got cable?"

"And air conditioning. Paid up front."

"How much?"

"What've you got?"

Dean looked around. He hadn't seen anyone use money in his time here. Not that he'd really know since most of his time here had been spent tromping along a damn road or dancing with cossacks. He hesitated, weighing cons to try. And was saved by a godawful snarly little voice from right around the height of his bobby-sock clad ankles. 

"Tell you what asshole, you give us the rooms or I take a dump right here," it said, and Crowley let loose one of those bio-war farts that were deadly in an enclosed space. Dean and the gnome both gagged and then the ugly little man was shoving two keys across the counter, eyes watering and face grimacing as he begged, "Okay, okay, don't do that again and I'll comp ya the night. Just . . .don't do it again."

Crowley, who must have followed Dean in, sat there and looked entirely too smug. Dean gave him a friendly little kick and then scooped up the keys and opened the door, holding it for the lethal little monster mutt.

His small, weird band of brother, plus a few others, stood waiting. Dean tossed a set of keys to Cas and said "You're in 3. Sam and I've got 4."

"Sam and you and ME, Lose-chester." Crowley sat back and smiled. The smug from getting them rooms went up another notch for annoying English grammar points. 

Dean looked at that smile, and flashed back for a moment to Mrs. Melder's high school English. He had fond memories of Mrs. M. He smiled at Crowley. Fuck you and if you want it that way, then unearthly entities in room 3, asshole."

"Sam and I could have room 4? I believe Crowley does get along better with you . . ." interrupted Castiel, with a vaguely desperate look on his face.

Death stood there watching, a tiny, subtle sparkle in his eye, an even tinier little twitch at one corner of his mouth that, in Death terms, was a full-bodied belly laugh. 

Crowley and Castiel were eying each other warily. Crowley moved one paw towards the angel and Castiel edged an itty bitty step away. The demon dog grinned widely and wriggled another inch over towards Cas, who narrowed his eyes and stamped his foot a hair's breadth from Crowley's tail.

Death heaved a noisy, long-suffering sigh and leveled a chilly, patient look on Dean. "The demon can stay with us."

Cas shot a look at the ancient entity and for once his usually calm expression gave way to clear, unmistakable, divinely absolute exasperation. 

This time both corners of Death's mouth twitched. 

It wasn't hard to recognize when it was time to get out of that particular crossfire. Dean grabbed the back of Sam's scruffy burlap shirt and hauled him towards room 4, twirling the key from the tacky plastic tag that identified the thing. "Great! You guys have 3, Sam and me, we've got 4!"

He had to jiggle the key in the lock to get it to turn. Behind him, Sam's straw rustled. "Why do you think they've got a parking lot?"

"It's a motel, Sam. You can't have a motel without a parking lot. It's unnatural." The knob turned and the flimsy door opened onto a small room. Dean felt on the wall beside the door, found a switch and flipped it. More electric lights. This time they were under-powered bulbs in cheap lamps perched on cheesy, peeling-veneer furniture. He stood at the door of the closest thing to home he'd found in Oz, then uttered the ritual, "Huh."

Sam crowded in behind him, frowning but breathing in the scent of industrial room freshener just as eagerly as Dean. He stopped and scuffed a toe at a burned plasticky spot on the (cheap, of course) sand-beige carpet. "Cigarette burns. Wonder who smokes in Oz."

"Like I said, it's part of the ambiance. You don't need smokers for it to be a motel. You just need the cigarette burns." He checked the bathroom to be sure that the small room with its sea-foam green tile and its ugly shower curtain was empty, then back to the bedroom where he turned to study the tacky paintings of busty mermaids wearing highly improbable seashell bras. He reached out and traced a finger over voluptuous curves, then blew a kiss. "Hey Darlin', looking good."

"Are you done ogling bad pin-ups?" Sam was sprawled on one of the beds. His tone was dry but his smile was just a little goofy.

"You gonna tell me you weren't homesick, Gigantor?"

"For rayon bedspreads and cheap . . ." He sat up and stared, shook his head. "They've got a TV. This is insane."

"Like I keep saying . . ." Dean threw himself into the air to land on the mattress and bounce with a squeal of offended springs. Rolling onto one side he waggled his eyebrows at Sam and grinned. "Motel. Oh, look! MAGIC FINGERS!"

Sam had found a remote and was pointing it at the small TV, jabbing a finger at the buttons. The TV was on, one of those old fashioned test patterns with the circles sitting on its screen. Sam hit a button. The test pattern changed to an a canned infomercial for something that promised to "melt the pounds with magic!" Sam watched it, eyebrows raised, head tilted. Dean left him to it. The Magic Fingers were fifty cents. Which would be great if he had pockets that had change in them but the now-grubby pinafore only had lint and dog hair in the pockets. "Sam, you got quarters?"

Sam didn't look away from the screen. "I'm a scarecrow. Why would I have quarters?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Because you have pockets and we're in a motel." 

There was a long-suffering sigh, but then Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, dug around. One, then the other, then the back, and then the little, tiny, useless one on the front of his coveralls. He shook his head, shrugged, and went back to watching his info-mercial with a sort of fascinated horror. 

Dean drummed his heels in frustration. The red, sparkly pumps threw little glittery lights on the ceiling and made a dull thud and none of it made the Magic Fingers start. "This is wrong. This is not FAIR! THIS SUCKS!"

Sam sighed again, loudly. "Yes. I agree. It sucks. So just go to the office. You know they've got to have quarters."

"Why?" Dean stared at him suspiciously. 

Sam grinned with triumph. "Because this is a motel."

"Asshat." He bounced once then rolled off the bed and onto his feet.

"Better take Crowley with you."

Dean paused. Then nodded. "You're right."

Which was how he found himself knocking on Death's door in the middle of the night in the Land of Oz.


	18. Goldfish and moth bombs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean. Death. Motels. What else is there to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual notes. Kripke et al blah blah no harm, no foul, no dough.

\---------  
chapter 18

 

Death wore silk pyjamas. 

"Can I help you, Winchester?"

Dean paused, eyeing the little goldfish printed on them. Little. Belly-up. Goldfish. He shook his head sharply and leaned sideways to look into the room. "I need Crowley for a minute."

Death glanced over his shoulder, then back. His lips quirked for an instant and his polite, cool voice almost sounded like he wasn't laughing at them all. "I'm afraid he's busy. You'll have to come back later."

Crowley was sitting, hunched, on the bed. He was staring at Castiel, who sat as hunched as he could manage with that metal torso and all. Neither the dog nor the tin angel blinked. Their expressions were grim. 

"I don't need him for long. He can go back to . . .uh," Dean looked at them, looked at Death, looked back at them, "Then he can go back to whatever the fuck he's doing."

Death's lips didn't quirk. They slowly widened and tilted up, wrinkles framing them, and framing his cold, dark eyes. It was terrifying. "The battle of good and evil is eternal."

"It's eternal and you idiots are distracting me. Take it outside. I've got an angel to eye-fuck." Crowley's long, pink, doggy-tongue slathered out of his relatively human seeming mouth as he panted happily. Dean could smell it from ten feet away. 

"Crap! You smell like something dead crawled into your mouth and stayed there! And thank you so much for that eye-fucker image, shit-breath. That's one I could have happily lived without for the rest of my life."

"Fuck off, Winchester. And take that withered excuse for an anthropomorphic entity with you. He's a menace."

"It is true that Death is distracting." Castiel sighed, and continued in a peevish tone. "It is difficult to concentrate on this when he's killing insects."

Dean looked back at Death, who smiled again and flicked a finger towards a moth. The little bug exploded in a puff of gray dust. 

"Whoa! Those don't usually do that."

"Explosive decomposition." Crowley grumbled. "I think I'd rather have the roaches intact."

"Right!" Dean clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "I can't tell you how much fun this has been, I'll just . . ." He waved a hand in the general direction of anywhere but their room.

"Nonsense." Death stepped forward, crowding Dean, and shut the door behind him with gentle care. "I'm sure that I can assist you as ably as our resident reeking demon dog."

"Oh, don't let me bother you," Dean pasted a clenched smile onto his face as he backed up out of Death's personal space. "I'll just turn in early, you know how it is, flying monkeys, long day."

Death eyed him coolly. "I gather you wished to use Crowley's unappealing bodily functions again for some reason?"

"What? Me? I . . .what would make you think that?"

"Why else would anyone seek him out?"

" . . .point." He rocked side to side on his little red heels. "Just. . . .I wanted a roll of quarters."

Death stopped, shuffled his feet in his slippers (they matched the pyjamas, watery blue with orangey gold piping. Dean looked at them, looked up at Death, and then away from the blankly puzzled expression on a face that looked like it hadn't been blankly puzzled in about ten thousand years). "And . . . how would a thing like Crowley be able to produce a thing like a roll of quarters, for a thing like you?"

"You're messing with me." Dean put his hands on his hips and tapped one ruby-shod toe. "Since when does Death fuck with people?"

That terrifying, curled smile appeared again. "It's your curse, Winchester."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying this is all in my head?"

"Is it?"

"Fucking. With. Me."

Death's smile showed a hint of large, square teeth. "Perhaps."

"Why?"

"It's a curse, Winchester. Perhaps you should just accept it for what it is."

Dean looked away, out into the misty, empty parking lot with its worn white spaces. The mist hung and caught the lights from the neon sign at the entrance. "It's a shitty weird place where I don't have my car and I don't have my pants and my brother's stuffed full of straw. 

"Where Demons are dogs."

"Angels have tin ears. Though he's got a tin ear anyway, I guess."

Dean sat down on the edge of the sidewalk, pulling his skirt over his knees. He watched Death watch the green neon sign as it flickered and buzzed. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Death glanced down at him then back up at the sign again. "Curses are fueled by belief. This world is vivid. It accommodates you for now, little hunter, but the world itself is so much more. And I am here, too. Ask the Witch of the West."

"What happens to the real world?" Dean whispered the question, not watching the thing beside him.

Death settled beside him, cross-legged. His voice was patient, calm. "The same thing that happened when I was in hell. Things live. Things die. They just do so in their own time."

"And when this ends?"

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Death glance his way, then look back out into the mist. "Why do you ask me what you already know, when that's not what you actually want to say?"

Dean looked down at his knees, up again into the cool night air. "You are not my idea of a buddy for a nice long talk."

"Yet here you sit." He sounded even more amused.

The green light sparkled off his shoes. Dean finally sighed. "Fuck. Yeah. I think I'll miss this shit."

Death reached out towards a fluttering moth, then dropped his hand. The little bug flew away. He didn't say a word but Dean didn't think he needed to, either. Dean flinched and Death did not as the door behind them slammed open and Crowley trotted past, cursing. A foul odor followed him and they both scrambled up, walking away from the sound of farts in the dark.

"You wanted coins?"

"Oh hell yeah! They've got Magic Fingers!"

Death made a rude noise then walked towards the office. Dean's shoes clattered as he dashed after the ancient thing. "Don't kill the clerk."

"Are you sure? It would improve him."

"Just leave the guy alive, okay? And not maimed either. No dying fingers or toes or . . ."

"I shall leave him intact." Death rolled his eyes. Dean could almost hear them rattling in his skull. "Get me a bucket of ice, little thing."

"You're a prick."

"And I shall be sure to remember that when I finally decide to destroy you."

"Yeah. Uh. Do that." He backed away, then headed for the a grumbling ice machine that he hadn't noticed until Death asked him for ice.

The bell jingled as the door opened, then shut without slamming. Dean scooped up ice and then stepped out to watch. Death leaned against the counter, said something. The clerk stopped chewing his gum and for a moment Dean thought he'd swallowed it, then he visibly sucked in a breath, yanked open a drawer and pulled out a few cylinders that he slapped on the counter before he backed away. 

Death smiled. Dean would have backed away from that look too.

But when he came out he had three rolls of quarters in his hands and the clerk wasn't dead, and Crowley was trotting back into his room where Castiel clanked. Dean took the coins and paused, finally shook his head. "Thank you."

"Enjoy them, Winchester. They are, after all, very magic."

Dean stared at him, and Death looked back and his smile didn't seem so cold or harsh this time. 

"Well? Are you coming in or are you going to kill more bugs you senile, doddering myth?"

Death heaved a noisy sigh. "Do me a favor, hunter, and slaughter Crowley before you die."

"I can promise you I'll do my best." Dean found himself smiling as they slammed their door behind them. Hefted his coins and almost skipped, with his Magic Fingers coins, nice and solid in his hands.

TBC


	19. a horse, and driver, of a different color, and bratwurst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as ever, they don't belong to me but I won't hurt 'em.

"No. Absolutely not." Sam spat a piece of straw like he was spitting a watermelon seed. It shot between Death and Crowley, who sat across from them in the cart-thing that passed for a taxi in the Emerald City. 

Dean whistled softly. The straw had made it more than four feet. "Impressive, Grasshopper. You're getting some real distance on those."

His brother smiled. Then spat another piece. It hit the horse of a different color, which was currently fuschia pink. The horse twitched an ear and changed to violet. "Flattery won't work. If you even try to call us the Dean League, I will cripple you. Temporarily, but painfully."

"Come on, man. Did you see how we took that geezer at the gate?" The wagon chauffeur (what DID they call them?) snickered. Dean ignored him. "And the teamwork with the little singing twits was epic!"

Sam settled back in his seat in the wagon. "The geezer is a . . .a geezer, Dean. And I'm doing this for your own good."

"Not seeing it, little brother."

Sam held up a hand, all but one finger folded. "One, you picked a stupid name and I'm protecting your dignity."

"Did not!"

A second finger went up. "Two, Death would kill you."

Death smiled coldly. "True. I would."

A third finger went up. "Crowley would fart."

The doggy demon leered and a trail of drool dribbled from his panting mouth. Dean shuddered.

A fourth finger shot up. "You're not wasting our time trying to convince them to be good guys."

"But we're so good together!"

The thumb joined the fingers. "And if you try to go evil just so you can pretend to lead a super-team, then *I* will kill you to save us both from the embarrassment!"

"Spoilsport." Dean pushed his lower lip out in a pout. 

"Oh, I don't know." Crowley scratched behind his ear and grinned. "You can be on my team, Winchester. Black eyes would be a good look on you."

Death rolled his eyes. "Are we there yet?"

Dean looked at him, then at Sam, then at growing crowds of people singing and dancing and carrying "the witch is dead!" signs. Real blood-thirsty crowds they had in Oz. Sam cleared his throat and politely asked the driver, "How much longer, sir?"

"Sir." Crowley made a rude noise and a rude smell. 

The driver gagged and pulled to a halt, relief clear on his face. "Yes. Yes, we're here!."

"Uh, what do we owe . . ." Sam was pawing through his pockets for the last roll of quarters, left behind when Dean fell asleep in the warm, loving embrace of the bed of the magic fingers.

"No, no charge!" The driver was waving his hat, trying to fan away the smell. "Just get out now!"

Crowley let another noisy fart rip then hopped down. With that miasma in the air, Dean escaped the zone of dog-butt death as quickly as he could, while Sam and Death scrambled out the other side and the driver and his horse gagged.

"I don't believe I've ever seen a horse gag before," mused Crowley. "Let alone a purple one."

Tin angel, obviously, had either no sense of smell or were too damn slow to escape and too damn nice to show it, because Castiel followed them out in as dignified a manner as a creaky, slightly rusty tin woods-angel could manage. He smiled genially at the cartsman, who was fanning his hat to try to drive away the stink. His horse was clearly not the only thing of a different color since he was sort of greenish himself. Castiel clanked up and patted the horse's rump. "Please forgive my odoriferous companion. He's a demon. He can't help it."

The driver's hat-flapping paused for a moment, then resumed. "Right. We'll just . . . " His eyes flickered to Crowley again, who grinned and belched. The cartsman blanched and snapped his reins, urging his horse forward.

The horse staggered, dragging the cart away as fast as it could. Crowley's gas attacks had managed to clear a small open space in the crowd, which was good since getting to the Wizard's castle would have required bloodshed otherwise. Dean's heeled ruby size tens tapped delicately on the glossy stairs of the castle as he skipped up them, wishing there was some way that ruby slippers would allow for a manly stomp. At least it was better than scampering, or Sam's rubber-legged locomotion. Only Death was able to just walk, though the long tail and perky ears were enough to almost make him look absurd. If he weren't so scary, at least. 

The same guard as before was at the door, and he saw them coming. A long, pointy nose and big mustache hung over the edge of the little peephole door. Dean caught his eyes, saw them go wide and the door slammed so fast the little fucker caught his 'stache, squealed, had had to open it up and slam it again. Dean sighed and tapped on the little door. "Hey! We're here and I got your damn toothpick of destiny so let us in!"

The muffled voice squeaked, "Visiting hours are over!"

"Bullshit. It's the middle of the morning."

"Breakfast."

The crowd had surrounded them and someone called out, "That was hours ago!"

"Elevenses!"

"Too early," said Dean. "Sundial says it's about 10:00."

"SECOND BREAKFAST!"

"Out of the way, Winchester," growled Crowley. "Never send a boy to do a dog's job."

"What? I have this."

Crowley lifted a leg and peed on the door. "Shut up and watch a master at work. OPEN THE DOOR, HOBBIT!"

"What?" The guard whipped open the peephole door, peered out with a baffled expression, then whipped back to slam it shut. "Go away."

"I'm the dog. You remember me." It wasn't a question.

A quavering voice responded, " . . . yessss?"

"You can keep the door shut and keep us out, but if you do, I'll have to fart out here. And drop a crap. Or two."

"NO!"

"Yes. And there's a bratwurst dealer here. Bratwurst gives me gas." Crowley punctuated that with an example. Dean, Sam, and Death scrambled back, running into the crowd that had clustered on the steps. There were screams. Cas tried to get away but he teetered back and forth and tipped over onto his back. Crowley noisily farted again, cocking his head with his ears perked. He chuckled and Dean was sure the guard was making a terrible noise, even if he couldn't hear it over the panicked crowd.

"I can do this all day!" Crowley rolled onto his back, wriggling his delighted little dog wriggle and let another one loose.

"All right! All right! No more!" The sounds of locks, many, many locks, rattled through the door. One. Two. Three. Four. And something that sounded like a were-walrus giving birth. Then the door creaked open, the guard standing there with his face buried in the crook of his elbow, watering eyes peering resentfully out at them all. 

Crowley hopped up onto his feet and trotted through. "I'm filing a complaint with the management."

Dean and Sam hauled Cas up onto his feet again as Death, tail draped over his arm, sashayed past them to follow Crowley. The guard stood back, constipated expression on his face, as the demon-dog, Death, and Dean and the Oz Team (Sam shot him a glare like he could hear the thought) scuttled through the door behind them, feeling the breeze as it shut at their backs.

"Don't dawdle." The guard made shooing motions, tassels flashing in the gloom.

"What's with the stick up YOUR asshole, shithead?" Dean glared and waved the broomstick at him. "The wizard said get the stick we got the stick. And yeah, Crowley's nasty but he didn't shit on your breakfast or anything."

"Or your second breakfast," Castiel added in a solemn voice.

"Or elevenses," chirped Sam. 

"Just go see the Wizard then get out of my building." He waved at the air as if it stunk. Which it did. "Please."

"That is the magic word." Castiel smiled gently and nodded.

"True." Sam hooked a hand through Dean's elbow and tugged him along. "Magic word, man."

"Magic word is kiss my shiny white ass,"

"That's true." Castiel nodded. "The wizard's harem did kiss quite a lot of different things."

"Oh yeah, and he had that big, green dil-" Sam smacked a hand over Dean's mouth. A piece of straw poked him through the cloth of the glove. 

"Don't say it, Dean. Some images cannot be unimagined."

Death glanced back over his shoulder. "That would most definitely be the porn version, Dean."

"I hope so." Castiel faced cleared in relief. "Dean won't be able to smack his breasts together three times, and that might make it difficult to leave Oz."

Dean rolled his eyes and Sam let go of him with a loud sigh. "Yeah, like THAT image."

"You really think it's that simple?" Dean tugged his pinafore and blouse away from his chest and glanced down. 

"Shoes. It's the shoes you smack together."

"That's a lot less magical." 

"You've been spending waaaayyy too much time with Castiel."

 

TBC


	20. If you're still reading, thank you and keep faith!

Life is simply really busy folks, but this story is not abandoned and chapters await. Thank you for your patience. I will now return you to your regularly scheduled ficcing.


	21. Interior decorating for the Immortal, not to mention wizards . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while! Where did we leave our hearty party? Oh yes, having melted Lucifer, survived Lucifer's troops' bathtub booze, gotten back via flying monkey and FINALLY getting their meeting with The Wizard!

Chapter 20

Crowley snickered. Castiel looked hurt. Dean patted his shoulder with a clank. "He's just jealous cause the only version he saw was the g-rated shoe fetish."

Cas nodded decisively. "You were right. Far less magical."

"It's the real movie and it's plenty magical. It's just not porn." 

"What we said." Dean dimpled triumphantly. 

Death twitched his tail back and forth. "Your nervous chatter is tiresome. Try to show some dignity."

"Where's the fun in that?"

And that's when the lights went out.

"Oh fuck. Not again," said five voices in chorus.

And a thundering bass intoned, "I am the Great and Powerful OZ!" as a sliver of light opened up, growing wider and wider as vast double doors rolled back to reveal the vaulting heights of a deeply tacky emerald throne room. 

The five stood, paralyzed by awe, or something like it. Then Sam leaned over to whisper loudly to Castiel, "Was it Uriel who had the tacky decorating?"

"He liked the French Rococo. You're thinking of the Ophanim."

"Isn't that jerking off?" asked Dean.

"That's Onanism," noted Sam. 

"Spendonim did the decorating," growled Crowley. "Don't you people know anything?"

"That's not real." Dean turned around, hands on hips, to scowl at the little demon. "You're making that up, liar!"

"Still in the room, you know," rang the vast voice of Oz.

"Do we have to do this now," sighed Death.

"I'm tired of Crowley feeding us bullshit!" snapped Dean.

"Hell-LO! Demon!" said Crowley in a Valley Girl lilt.

"I'm still here, you know!" Oz's voice rang out and the floor trembled.

Dean shook the broomstick at the ceiling, "We're having a private discussion here."

"You're full of crap, Winchester!" Crowley said, and farted.

"Takes one to know know," replied Dean.

"So mature." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Still HERE, people!" said Oz.

Crowley bristled, growled, then scampered over to piss on the towering velvet drapes. "We cleaned up your wicked witch mess, you bumbling fool. You can wait!"

"OH THOU IMPERTINENT LITTLE WRETCH!" howled Oz.

The other four jumped and covered their ears. Death's tail swished back and forth. Dean, hands still pressed to his ears, pointed one finger at the demon dog. "Crowley. Quit stalling. You know your cue."

The demon dog sighed and as the amplified voice rumbled into more pontification, grabbed the drapes and tugged, pulling them back and grumbling about mildew. 

Dean twitched, and Sam went slack jawed beside him. "Frank?"

"WHAT? WHO?" The rich, thundering tones suddenly cut off as Frank Devereau spun to glare at them all. "Don't use my name!"

Dean looked at Sam, who looked back. They both shrugged then turned back to the paranoid nerd. "Why are you here?"

"Shhhhh! Shut up! Shut up!" Frank scrambled across several hundred feet of polished green floor, hissing and waving for silence all the way. Behind him, Crowley sniffed at the foot pedals of the freaky Hammond organ microphone thing that Frank had been using. The once and future king of hell, and present demonic terrier, stood on his hind paws to examine the hand controls. Dean kept half an eye on the filthy beast, only surprised when he did not take a dump before trotting back to their sides.

"When did you get here? Have you been here all along?" Sam was studying Frank and the steampunk wet dream machine with interest.

"Who cares, can you get us back?" Dean crossed his arm and tapped the toe of a sparkly red shoe.

"Why did you send us for the broomstick," asked Castiel.

Death scowled at them all, lashing his tail. "It's a curse. There is no why, when or how. Just get on with it."

"I'm with the entity in the lion suit," said Crowley, sitting back to scratch at one ear. "This bumbling fool needs to say his piece, get it done with and then we move on and I finally get back to two legs and stop having to look up Winchester's skirt."

Dean pulled his pinafore in tight around his legs. "No one asked you to look up my skirt, you pervy little monster."

"Kind of hard to miss your ass in those frilly panties, hunter. Come on, tap out and get us out of here, you jackass."

"Won't work from in here, you filthy hellspawned mutt." Frank kicked at Crowley and spun to level a frenzied glare at Dean. "Don't try it. I've got jammers up to kill any unauthorized footware-related communications networks."

"Footware . . .comm . . . Frank. Do you REALLY have your head all the way up your ass?" 

"Moron!" Frank waved a hand in front of Dean's face, shutting him up and making him lean back then stumble as he lost his balance, high heels tapping on glassy green. "You open a shoe connection from in here and the NSA will be on us faster than a Leviathan on a trucker at a fast food buffet!" 

Dean blinked. Kept his mouth shut as he tried to puzzle out what the hell Frank had just said. Crowley, on the other hand, just flicked his doggy tail and bit Frank's ankle. The security nut kicked at him again, missed and Sam steadied the nutcase, but Crowley was sitting back, glaring up at them all.

"Listen up, you idiots. First of all, you," he flicked a paw in Frank's direction, "are a moron. Even more than most of these blithering meatbags. And you're a dead moron at that."

"He's right." Death smiled toothily. "Obnoxious, but correct."

Crowley leveled his doggy gaze at Sam, then Dean. "Second. You two are morons, idiots, and menaces to every demon and . . .other thing that's just trying to harvest a few souls and get through the night." 

"I am gonna LOVE exorcizing you," sighed Dean, savoring the image. "Or maybe demon trapping," added Sam in a hopeful tone.

Crowley turned to glare at Castiel, "And then there's you. Have you ever watched an Oz movie that wasn't porn? I'm the king of sin ("you wish," muttered Dean) and even I'VE seen the original Wizard of Oz!"

"Are you done?" sighed Death. "We know you're tired of being a dog and tired of being here. At the risk of quoting the risible human rabble, blah-blah-blah."

"Arrogant wanker."

"Careful, little demon," Death leveled a gentle, icy smile at Crowley. "What happens in a curse may not stay in a curse."

"That's Vegas," noted Castiel helpfully.

"Shut up," said Death and Crowley together. 

Frank had taken the broomstick from Dean and was running his hands up and down it, studying the thing. Now he rolled his eyes, at the dog and Death and turned to Dean. "With this, I think I can get you home without violating the blackout zone over the Emerald City."

"Oh-kay." Dean pasted a smile on his face and ignored how Sam was studying Frank with the look he reserved for giant, sobbing teddy bears and similar manifestations of batfuck crazy phenomenon. "Care to share with the class, Wiz?"

"Don't call me that." Frank had pulled out an EMF meter and was running the device's pickups over the broomstick, listening to its whine with a satisfied expression on his face. "Yeah, yeah, this could work."

"What could work?" Castiel sounded genuinely curious.

Frank patted him on the head. "This is different from the porn version, Castiel."

Crowley snorted and wagged his tail. Sam had to turn away, coughing like he'd swallowed wrong. Dean sighed and turned to Frank. "Wanna let us in on it?"

"No."

"Let me rephrase that. How the fuck are you getting us out of this shit-hole and when does the train leave the station?"

"Magic and first thing tomorrow." Frank was still studying the broomstick.

"How about bullshit and right now?"

Frank looked up at them all, eyes wide as if he'd forgotten all of them were then. Then pulled a handful of plastic cards out of his pocked and stuffed them into Dean's hand. "Oz vacation passes. All rides and meals free. Come back in twenty-four hours, boys. Now get the hell out of my palace and don't let the doors smack you in the ass on the way out. Oh, and no shoe-related hanky panky, Winchester. I mean it. I don't want my fucking phone calls to end up some place in Dipshit, Utah, you hear me?"

"Got it, got it," He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "I hear and obey."

"Bet your ass you do," growled Frank, retreating behind his curtains again and whipping them closed in dismissal.

Sam shook his head and spat out a piece of straw, turning to look at Dean. "Every time I think my life is as weird as it can get, I find out I'm wrong."

Dean snorted and held up the cards. "An angel, a demon, and Death walk into a bar, Sam. What's the bartender say?"

Crowley piped up, You're full of crap?" 

"Close enough." Dean spun on one sparkly little heel and led the way back out again, for what he hoped was their last night in Oz.


End file.
